Between the Lines of Fear and Blame
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: In the hunt for Lucifer, Sam is hurt and Dean has to embark on a quest to find his brother in more ways than one.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Between the Lines of Fear and Blame 1/4

Summary: In the hunt for Lucifer, Sam is hurt and Dean has to embark on a quest to find his brother in more ways than one.

A/N: For some reason, this fic scares me. But since I wrote it and geminigrl11 threatened to beat me up if I didn't post it, here goes. It's a four parter, set post S4. I wanted to get it out before Kripke shows us his version of it. Beta'ed by Gem and love given by sendintheclowns and Brenna, who is still alive!

Disclaimer: Don't make me laugh, okay?

-o-

_Step one you say we need to talk  
He walks you say sit down it's just a talk  
He smiles politely back at you  
You stare politely right on through  
Some sort of window to your right  
As he goes left and you stay right  
Between the lines of fear and blame  
You begin to wonder why you came _

-from "How to Save a Life" by the Fray

-o-

The thing about Winchesters was that they didn't have bad days.

No, they had horrible days. They had terrible days. They had the worst days known to man. They had the days that left normal people curled up in the fetal position, mumbling endlessly about the atrocities of life.

As far as Winchesters went, that kind of crap was just par for the course. They had the days where you died and got dragged down to Hell. They had the days where you meet your half brother only to find out he was eaten alive by ghouls. They had the days where your brother sucked blood and tried to kill you. They had the days where oops, you let Lucifer out of Hell.

And not to mention the ones where the doctor told you how very sorry she was, but your brother just wasn't going to wake up and did he have a living will?

Yeah. Those were typical Winchester days.

Didn't make them any easier, even though Dean sort of thought they should be by now.

And yet, after everything, he hadn't been here often. Sure, he'd been in hospitals dozens of times himself, but usually he was the one in the bed. For Sam to be here? For Sam to be in the bed with that damn tube down his throat?

Well, apparently even Winchesters could still find new ways to have horrible days.

With a sigh, Dean looked at his watch. That precious forty-eight hour mark had come and gone, and with it, Sam's chances of coming out of this had dwindled.

Irreversible damage, the doctor had called it. Negligible brain function.

In short, it was time to start thinking about pulling the plug.

Dean had called Bobby instead.

He probably should have called Bobby when it happened--but there had been so much blood and Sam had been more than a little unconscious, and Dean had just thought that it'd be okay. Not okay okay, since Sam was completely out of it, but Winchester okay. A little motel room triage, a nice talk down to Sam about the value of not getting yourself thrown off a balcony while exorcising a demon, and life would be just peachy keen.

Well, as peachy keen as it got with Lucifer roaming free and having a blood addict as a little brother.

Dean let his eyes go to his brother again and he forced himself to swallow back his fear. Sam looked the same as he had when Dean had brought him in here: pale features, lax body. It was unnerving, though. Sam looked almost small like that--and so vulnerable. As much as Dean hated to admit it, he'd begun to think Sam was invincible most of the time. After all, he'd had the demonic superpowers to prove it.

But Sam had gone cold turkey. He hadn't used his powers once to defend himself since Lucifer had risen--which was how they'd ended up here. The demons seemed to relish Sam's newfound time on the wagon. It gave them more to tempt him with, more to mock him with. More to dangle in front of him as they effectively tried to rip him from limb to limb when an exorcism and a devil's trap weren't enough.

Dean was loathe to admit what had become the unavoidable truth: those measures that they'd relied on so heavily weren't going to cut it much more. Not with this many demons with this many tricks.

They'd been careful with this hunt--took extra time to lay their lines of protection and to reinforce their devil's trap. They'd even memorized the exorcism just to make sure. But one incantation from the demon's mouth, and the place had been swarming. One good shake of the property, and all their protections were gone, and one memorized exorcism wasn't enough.

Dean had the knife, which was still able to do some meaningful damage.

Sam had nothing.

The demons had been smart--separated them. The ones that took him on were felled quickly by the knife. Sure, they got a few blows in, but they hadn't even been trying that hard.

Dean had let himself believe it might be an easy job after all.

Until he found the horde with Sam.

Easily double what Dean had taken on, they were all around Sam, taking their turns as they slammed Sam up and down, teased him with their blades and insults.

And Sam took it. Spat Latin with blood and fought back for what it was worth.

By the time Dean broke the party up, it was too late. Even with their attentions divided, there was more than enough time to pick Sam up and dangle him over the edge of the banister and just let him drop.

Liar and addict and starter of the Apocalypse, Sam was still Dean's little brother. He killed the rest of them on principle alone.

Killing them had felt good--despite the bumps in the plan, it had been a successful hunt. A good victory in the grander scheme of things.

Until he saw Sam.

Sam had been a mess of broken bones and cuts, and there had been blood everywhere. But it was the unconsciousness and the sheer height of the drop that had finally made Dean take Sam to the hospital. Moving Sam was risky, but calling an ambulance to a house full of dead people was even riskier.

At least the doctor hadn't thought Sam was paralyzed.

Just brain dead.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, and tried to remember when he'd last slept. He'd been here for over two days now, and he hadn't closed his eyes for more than a few minutes in all of that. It just seemed wrong to sleep. With Sam in a coma, sleeping made him uneasy.

But what else was he supposed to do? Sam was, after all, _in a coma_.

Not that Dean knew what to do with Sam when he was awake. Sure, Sam had stopped lying and drinking blood. That didn't change the fact that Sam _had_ done those things, and had done them to the point where he'd put them in this mess to begin with. It wasn't that Dean wanted to be mad at his little brother, but it was hard not to be. He'd told Sam it was wrong. He'd told Sam not to. But Sam had ignored him.

The Apocalypse didn't really leave Dean much time to gloat.

Sam's coma didn't really make him want to anyway.

With a sigh, he looked at his watch again. Bobby would be here soon. Then Dean could figure this out.

He looked at his brother again.

They _had_ to figure this out.

-o-

Bobby showed up and ripped him a new one. Launched into a diatribe about taking precautions and calling in for backup and knowing when he was in over his head.

Dean had to smile, but his heart wasn't in it. "Thanks for coming," he said.

Bobby eyed him angrily before glancing at Sam. "They say it's a coma?" he asked.

Dean collected himself, rubbing the tiredness from his eyes. He rolled his shoulders, stretching a little. "They're calling it irreversible."

Bobby swore under his breath. He closed his eyes for a long moment before opening them again. He pinned Dean with resolved eyes. "Do you believe that?"

That was the question Dean hadn't allowed himself to ask just yet. The one he'd been avoiding since he'd dragged Sam's limp body in here. He swallowed hard. "He fell a long way," he said finally. "And the demons had a pretty good time with him before they let him fall."

Bobby gave a dry snort. "Sounds like the story of Sam's life," he muttered. "But we have to know if Sam's really gone, like gone gone, or if he's just trapped in there."

"Well, that's nice, Bobby," Dean said. "I tried asking him, but Sam was sort of too unconscious to answer."

Bobby's mouth settled into a thin line. "Your damn fool brother has been trying his ass off to make amends," he said. "We owe him this."

It was a protective sentiment. In truth, Dean would expect no less from Bobby. But it wasn't entirely practical, nor did it take any of the realities of the situation into account. "I'm still wondering how you want to do that," Dean said with an even breath. "Because I've been sitting here for two days and I'm not coming up with much."

"It's called research," Bobby replied back. "I know Sam's the book-minded one between the two of you, but I thought you were capable."

The insinuation was not lost on Dean. He wasn't perfect, he knew that, but he was doing the best he could. After all that Sam had done to him, Dean was still here. That was saying something---that was saying a lot--and he did not appreciate the suggestion to the contrary. Dean was the one who was cleaning up Sam's mess. Even now, Dean was the one who had been sitting vigil since this happened. "I'm not the one who started this whole thing in the first place."

"So you want to leave him like that?" Bobby asked angrily, nodded toward where Sam was on the bed. Even throughout their heated exchange, Sam hadn't as much as twitched. The ventilator had done its steady work, the monitors relaying the basic sounds of Sam's life.

Dean looked away again, heat flaring in his cheeks. "No," he said, because he didn't. He was mad at Sam for a lot of things, but he couldn't be mad about a coma. "It's just--if he's suffering, I don't know. If it's just his body--maybe it would be merciful to end it. I'm just trying to think about what Sam would want."

Bobby laughed hotly. "Sam would have wanted to stay dead at Cold Oak, not to mention to finish himself off several times since then," he said. The older man sighed, dragging a hand across his face. "Damn it, son. I know this is hard on you. And I know all of this has been more than any man should bear. But he's your _brother_."

"And that's why I haven't done it yet," Dean said. He motioned to the table. "They keep giving me these damn pamphlets. Things about organ donation and DNRs. And I don't know what to do. I'm not making another damn deal, and so I think I'm running a little short on options that doesn't involve human sacrifices and black magic."

"You call Castiel?"

Dean tightened his jaw. "He can't do anything."

"Or he won't."

"Well, maybe we shouldn't," Dean replied as honestly as he could. "Sitting here, looking at him, I don't know. If Sam's gone, if it's Sam's time..."

"Then we'd let him go," Bobby agreed quietly. "But we don't know that yet."

"And how do you suggest figuring that out?" Dean asked, more than a hint of skepticism in his voice.

Bobby's face darkened a little. "I don't know."

"Welcome to my world for the last three days," Dean grumbled. "I've gone over it in my head and I keep coming to the same conclusion."

"To give up?"

It wasn't easy to admit, but he didn't know what other options there were. It was the truth he'd been circling back to, no matter how much he hated it. "To let it end," Dean countered softly.

"Sam wouldn't accept that for you."

Dean's frustration mounted. "But maybe Sam's already gone!" he exploded. "I've seen the tests. I've seen the charts and the scans and it all keeps saying the same damn thing: that Sam's not coming back. That he's not waking up. That this time there's just no answer."

Bobby shook his head slowly. "You're tired, Dean," he said slowly.

"Damn right, I'm tired," Dean snapped. Because he'd been doing this too long. Too many years as John's good little soldier. Too many months watching out as Sam did whatever the hell he wanted, no matter how much damage it did. Too many days playing God's warrior to be able to micromanage things on this level. Dean wasn't a saint and he wasn't some martyr by choice--this wasn't what he wanted for himself, but no one ever thought to ask him that.

He didn't want Sam to be hurt--he really didn't--but what was he supposed to do? He'd done everything right for his entire life and Sam still went and screwed it all up? He'd sold his soul for Sam, and what more was he supposed to give that he hadn't already given? What else could he do?

Sometimes there were consequences, and sometimes even Winchesters had to accept them. He would do just about anything for Sam, but he couldn't bring his brother back. Not again. Not considering everything it cost the entire world the first time around.

He had told Sam how this worked way back when his own heart had been damaged. Sometimes in life you drew the short straw. Dean didn't like it, but maybe it was time he had to accept it--for himself and for Sam. All the work he'd done keeping Sam safe had been for nothing. He couldn't play protector to a grown man.

He shook his head, feeling the tendrils of bitterness in his stomach. "I've been tired for years, and this? Is just a little more than I know what to do with right now," he said, and his voice cracked with emotion. Tears burned at his eyes. It was overwhelming, so completely encompassing that Dean thought he might drown in it. He'd tried being everything for everyone and this time he was just coming up short. "I've got the Apocalypse breathing down my neck and they're telling me my brother is a vegetable and I just don't know what to do anymore, okay?"

Bobby nodded, and the excitement faded from his face into weariness. "I'm sorry," he said. He looked at Sam again. "I know you're trying and I don't envy you your task. It's just--damn. I watched that kid fall so hard and I know how much he wants to make it better. I can see it in him, how hard he tries. It takes a strong man to do what he's doing."

It was funny to Dean. Sam being strong. Sam had never seemed weaker than he had since Lucifer's rise. Watching his brother fall apart, learning about the lies and the blood and all of it had tipped the scales in Dean's favor. It was a reassuring fact for Dean, especially after the year he'd had.

If Sam were strong, he wouldn't have become an addict in the first place. He wouldn't have started the Apocalypse.

No. Sam wasn't strong. While Dean might have wanted to protect Sam before--it wasn't the same now. This wasn't like protecting some innocent five year old kid or some geeky undersized teenager or even the bereaved college boy. This was a full grown, demon blood addict. Dean had given everything to Sam and more--what more was there?

And that was the question--no matter what hurt or bitterness Dean felt, the real issue was that there was nothing else he could do--not without compromising too much. Dean shook his head. "I'd save his life if I could," Dean said, and it broke his heart to admit it all. "I'd probably still take a bullet for him. But he's probably _brain dead_. How the hell am I supposed to fix that?"

Bobby's face fell, the corners of his mouth pinched. He looked at Sam again, before turning his eyes back to Dean. He collected a breath and let it out. "Give me a few days," he said.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "And where else are we going to go?"

Bobby scowled. "Just--don't let them pull the plug, okay?"

Lingering at Sam's side, Dean saw Bobby hesitate. Grim faced, the older hunter stormed out of the room, leaving Dean alone.

He glanced at his brother. Not quite alone. but at this point, Dean wasn't sure there was a difference.

Tired, he sank down to the seat. He dropped his head into his hands and thought about praying, but he wasn't sure what he wanted to ask for.

-o-

It wasn't even ten hours later when Bobby came back. He looked exhausted, a little wild around the eyes. He had an arm full of books and he closed the door behind him hastily as he dropped his backpack onto the table.

"I've got it," he said.

Scrambling a little, Dean tried to bring himself back together. He'd been dozing on and off all day, lost somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, dreams and reality.

His back protesting, Dean stood, stretching a little. "You've got what?"

"A way to help Sam."

Dean felt his concern ratchet up a notch. "It's safe, right?" Dean said.

"Shouldn't cause any problems," Bobby said, flipping through a book.

"I mean, like, it's not dark magic. No demons deals, blood sacrifices. That kind of thing."

Bobby glared at him. "Boy, you think I'd lay that on Sam?" he said. "He has enough guilt and I know he wouldn't want anything else done on his account."

Dean didn't have a reply to that. He didn't want to admit that his concern had been more about the cosmic order of things and his own personal karma that Sam's wishes.

Bobby put a book in front of his face. "There," he said. "It's an ancient ritual. Kind of like a seance only more focused."

Dean's eyes skimmed. "A Sumerian Dream Walk?"

"Or some kind of modified version of it," Bobby confirmed.

Dean gave Bobby a skeptical look. "Sam's a little more than asleep."

"But the idea's the same," Bobby said. He pointed to the page. "The ritual is designed to give someone access to the unconscious mind. They used it to change people's dreams, sort of a selfish gain sort of thing, but I figure it can work this way, too."

"So, what?" Dean asked. "I hop into Sam's head and tell him to wake up?"

Bobby shrugged a little. "I figure half the battle is seeing if Sam is there at all."

Dean considered that. He gave his brother a furtive look. "So if no one's home--"

"Then we know it's time to let Sam go."

Dean sighed. He was tired, there was no doubt. The world was ending out there, and he was supposed to stop it. But, Sam was his brother. For better or worse, and they were definitely pushing that worse thing, Sam was his responsibility. The least he could do was try to bring Sam back. It was the only way to be sure, the only way he could know if it was okay to let go yet or not.

Licking his lips, he nodded, meeting Bobby squarely in the eyes. "What do we have to do?"

-o-

Bobby came prepared.

Dean watched as he unloaded the backpack--some candles, a few herbs. Dean had skimmed the incantation that was supposed to do the trick, but he had to admit, it wasn't quite all coming together for him.

"So I'm still not quite following. How do I get inside Sam's head?" he asked.

Bobby was sprinkling some herbs in the corner of the room. "It's sort of vague," Bobby admitted. "The candles, the spices, the incantation--they all just sort of set the mood. Open the passageway in a sense."

"So how do I get through?"

Bobby paused, and pressed his lips together. He stood up straight, and looked at Dean. "You sort of have to--focus on Sam. Not think of anything else. Just him. Or, his essence."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "His essence?"

Bobby shifted uncomfortably. "I know it sounds like some kind of New Age mumbo jumbo, but that's the only way it can work," he said. He scratched at his neck. "You have to find Sam before you can get in there and help him."

Dean wanted to laugh. He had to find his brother. He'd been looking for his little brother ever since he got back from Hell, and all he'd found was a liar and an addict who would rather sneak out on him than own up to anything.

So finding Sam? Sounding a lot more challenging. After all, what would he focus on? Sam's blood? His mistake in letting Lucifer out? Maybe the feeling of strangling his own brother?

"If anyone can do it, it's got to be you," Bobby told him.

Emotion rose in Dean's throat--incredulity, bitterness, fear--but it was drowned out by the pervasive weariness. He'd been doing this so long. Sitting here in this hospital room, trying to make sense of who his brother was, working to save the world. There were a lot of things Dean just couldn't do. A lot of things he didn't know how to do. And he was tired of the games--the angels' vague prophecies, Sam's elusive guilt complex.

So this? Focusing on Sam's essence? In the bigger picture, it seemed like a small step to take.

No matter where it led him--to Sam, to the emptiness where Sam once was--at least there would be answers. At least there would be resolution.

He let himself look at his brother again. Maybe he did owe this to Sam.

He owed it to himself more.

"So I just have to think about Sam?" he confirmed.

Bobby nodded gravely. "Best as I can tell," he said. "If we've done it right, the rest should be pretty clear."

Dean gave a snort. "That would be a first."

"You ready to give this a go?"

"You sure the nurses won't notice the open flames?"

Bobby gave him a condescending look. "You really think I'm that stupid?"

Dean shrugged.

"You just worry about your brother," Bobby told him. "I'll handle the rest."

"Okay, okay," Dean relented. But, in the end, he wasn't sure who was getting the better end of that deal.

-o-

Lights off, candles lit, Bobby had made Dean sit in the chair facing Sam. They'd waited until rounds were over, hoping the change in shift would give them the time they needed to knock at Sam's proverbial door and see if anyone was still home.

The problem was, Dean was tired. With dim lights and the scent of herbs in the air, he really could just fall asleep.

Not to mention he felt damn stupid sitting there just _thinking_ about Sam.

Shifting in his seat, Dean felt ridiculous and uncomfortable and ridiculously uncomfortable. "Just how long will this take anyway?"

Bobby gave a small shrug. "Beat me," he said. "The lore varies a bit."

Dean made a face. "What do you mean it varies a bit?" he asked. "I'm going into my brother's head and the lore _varies_?"

Bobby's exasperation was evident. "It might be an equal second for second kind of thing. So the time you spend in there might translate the same out here. Or it could be relative."

Dean's stomach roiled. "Relative, huh," he said. Like forty years in four months. "Great. Just what I need."

"I know it ain't perfect," Bobby said. "But it's all we have. We have to do this. For Sam."

Dean gave his brother a once over again. Sam had not moved. His arms were slightly rearranged from the nurse's latest examination, but other than that--nothing. Same lax features. Same unmoving limbs. Same damn tube sticking out of his brother's mouth.

After so many days, Sam looked almost fake, if Dean were honest. His brother's features were waxy, his face looking almost gaunt. Sam was wasting away. They were going to run out of time--whether Sam was there or not. He had to know. He couldn't let Sam go until he knew.

"So you got your ritual?" Dean asked, turning weary eyes back to Bobby.

"I'll get on my best Sumerian accent," Bobby said. "You just think about Sam."

Dean let his gaze go back to his brother. He tried to remember his brother's eyes, the way his forehead crinkled when he was thinking. He tried to think about Sam's bitchface and his smile--and the last time he'd actually seen Sam smile at all.

He thought about Sam on the hunt, his plain determination to do the right thing. He thought about the lust for blood in Sam's eye with every demon they killed and how Sam had to turn away to control it.

He thought about Sam with that look of resignation on his face the minute the demon dropped him.

He thought about Sam's look of regret when Lucifer rose and all Sam could say was _I'm sorry_.

Distantly, he could hear Bobby chanting. Suddenly, Dean was tired. His eyes felt heavy and the room felt too warm.

His eyes blinked closed slowly and he tried to open them.

Sam, he thought. He had to think of Sam.

He thought of Sam as a baby, the way he'd cooed when Dean made faces. He thought of Sam in his arms when he was four years old and the sound of his brother's cries as he'd carried him down the stairs.

Then, light exploded and the air seemed to tear. There was an opening--some kind of rift--and before Dean had the chance to think about whether or not this was it, he was falling toward it faster than he could stop.

-o-

The light gave way to darkness and Dean's breath exhaled by force when he came to an abrupt stop.

It didn't hurt, but it was sudden and jarring. It took him a moment to realize he had landed.

More or less, anyway.

Opening his eyes, he tried to figure out where he was. But what he saw wasn't very helpful.

Blackness.

Pure blackness.

The expanse was endless. The blackness extended as far as Dean could see, so deep that it enveloped him. Every step he took was further into the nothingness, and for a horrifying moment, he thought it might actually swallow him whole. More terrifying than the torture of Hell, this was a powerful void that left him feeling nauseatingly uncertain of his own existence at all.

It occurred to him what this meant. There was nothing here. More than that, there was no one. Maybe the doctor had been right. Maybe Sam was gone, and Dean needed to let him go.

It was an unsettling revelation, but more unnerving yet was the fact that he couldn't find the door he'd used to get in here. Without a way out, it looked like he might be stuck here, too. He'd managed to get out of one Hell; he wasn't sure he wanted to try his luck at two.

His heart skipping a beat, he turned, squinting back, but the space behind him was as black as the area in front. Seamless and perfect in its darkness, no signs of life to be found. He couldn't even make out his own body in the vastness, and his breath tightened in his chest at the thought. He liked to think he was strong in most situations, but there was something about this place--something sinister in its emptiness, malicious in its vastness. As if the void could suck his soul out of him before he could even put up a fight, as if he would become the darkness before his conscious mind could make the decision to let go.

Slow suicide. Quick insanity, and a dark deconstruction. It was taking him already.

Desperation swelled in him. "Hey!" he screamed. "Come on! I don't belong here!"

He spun, looking back the other way, lurching a few feet ahead. "Come on!" he screamed. "This is freakin' stupid! I have other things to do! Places to go, people to see!"

His voice didn't even echo, because there was nothing for it to reflect off of.

"No, no, no, no," he muttered. "This is so not how it's supposed to go."

He fiddled around in his pocket, wondering if his metaphysical self was as well equipped at the real life version.

Fumbling in his pocket, he yanked too hard, and his wallet flopped out of his hands, lost in the darkness. Cursing, Dean dug again. "I have a freakin' Apocalypse to stop!" he yelled at no one. "I'm pretty sure there are, like, fifty arch angels who would swoop in here and shed some light on this messed up situation!"

He wasn't sure who he was trying to tell that to, since Sam seemed to be nowhere in the building. And that scared the crap out of him, it did--but Dean would deal with that later. Right now, the concept of losing Sam was too abstract to grasp; the darkness surrounding him was his immediate concern. Being here made him impotent--it would make him crazy--and if he was going to help Sam or even the world for that matter, he needed to get out. Besides, self-preservation was an instinct well ingrained in him, now more than ever. Hell did that to a guy. Dean had died once already, and he wasn't looking to do it again. Not now, not for a long time if he had anything to do about it.

His fingers closed upon his lighter, and relief rushed over him. Careful, he pulled it out, flicking it up, revealing a small flame.

At first, the sight of his own hand holding the flame was enough, but as Dean looked around, he realized he wasn't much better off. The expanse was no less vast and there was still nothing there.

Which means he just had to go back. Just turn around, go back the way he came. He could do that.

Slowly, he took measured steps, licking his lips as he ventured back. He didn't know how long it took, since time seemed slower there anyway, but then, he saw it. Simple and hanging neatly, a single doorway.

"Thank God," he said, moving quickly to it. He grasped it eagerly, ready to be done with this, to be out of here, when he heard it.

It was a quiet noise, barely audible, no more than a faint whisper.

He stilled, fingers still on the knob, and listened.

It was a voice, he realized. Someone was here.

Hesitating, he looked longingly at the door. He thought about the sunlight outside, about his mission to save the world. He thought about the girls and the burgers and Cas and Bobby.

Then he thought about Sam in the hospital bed and why he was here at all.

Closing his eyes, he bit his lip. Taking a breath, he let go of the doorknob, edging along carefully toward the voice.

It wasn't hard to track, and in the dim glow of his lighter, he soon saw the figure. It was curled up on the floor, knees drawn to its chest, head drooped forward with straggly hair falling over the bowed head. And it was rocking, the frenetic unconscious motion of a damaged child, curled so tight, that it almost looked like it hurt.

With careful steps, Dean approached. "Hey," he called gently. "Hey, you."

The figure didn't stop, though, didn't even flinch. Just kept rocking, and as Dean approached, he tried to make out what it was saying.

It was too slurred, though, rushed together and mumbled.

Brow creased, Dean kneeled down. "Hey, kid," he called again.

But the figure didn't react.

Dean was close enough now to see the kid trembling. His feet were bare and his knuckles were white. He was skinny beneath the thin t-shirt, and as Dean tried to peer around the greasy hair, recognition dawned on him.

"Sammy?" he asked, almost too shocked to believe it.

He knew his brother inside and out. He knew everything about the kid, and had seen him as a newborn baby to the mammoth sasquatch he was now. But this kid? This kid was skinny, almost emaciated. All skin and bones, and it just wasn't right.

Dean's hesitation lost out to his shock, and he reached out to touch him. "Sam, it's me," he said.

His touch garnered an immediate response, but not the one he expected.

Sam tore away, flinching hard and fast as he scrambled away. He fell, rolling to hands and knees as he put distance between himself and Dean, looking backward with wide, terrified eyes.

"Sam, chill, man, it's me," he said again. "It's Dean."

Sam shook his head, and Dean saw just how bad off his brother was. His cheeks were sunken, the remnants of a beard like patchwork on his face. The circles under his eyes were dark and prominent, and his thin chest rose and fell fast. Sam's lips were dry and cracked and they moved frantically, but little sound came out.

"Sam," he said again. "Seriously. It's Dean. You know, your brother. The one who has been there through everything, the guy who knows you inside and out."

At that, Sam shook his head. "Only humans have brothers," he said, and his voice was a cracked whisper. "Not monsters."

Dean cocked his head, swallowing as he took a step closer, hoping for Sam to see him clearer.  
But Sam wasn't looking at him at all, he realized.

Sam wasn't looking at anything.

Sam was staring, eyes vacant, at the vastness beyond him.

"Sam, you're starting to freak me out here," he said, trying to laugh. "I realized a trip inside your head would be a freaky thing, but this takes the cake, even for you."

"Always a freak," Sam murmured. "Kill him or save him. It means you're a monster. It was your choices all along. How far from human. How far from human."

With that, Sam pulled his legs in again, locking his hands tight around them. He shook his head, sniffling a little. "Always a freak. Monster. Monster, monster, monster."

Sam's voice trailed off into sobs, and Dean could only gape. Tentative, Dean kneeled down, trying to catch Sam's eye.

But there was nothing to catch. The vacant look was shrouded behind the stringy hair. In essence, Sam was just _gone_, consumed by the mantra of self-hate that sounded all too familiar.

It would have been easier if Sam hadn't been here at all. Having this Sam, this shell, left Dean with a difficult proposition. There was no way he could bring _this_ back with him. Even if he did manage to get Sam to wake up, Dean wasn't sure he wanted to live with a brother like this in real life.

Because this wasn't Sam. It wasn't fair to bring Sam back like this--not to Sam, not to Dean. Maybe the doctor had been right--it was just time to let Sam go.

Then he heard something.

Soft and behind him.

Turning, Dean's eyes probed the expanse.

There it was again--under the keening of his brother--and hushed sound--a beckoning whisper. "_Hey_!"

Swallowing, Dean narrowed his eyes, stepping away from the huddled mess on the floor. "Who's out there?"

"Over here!" the voice called, urgent but still hushed.

Dean squinted into the blackness. "Over where?"

"Over _here_," the voice said again.

Dean was about to demand more clarification, but a new ray of light split the scene. Glancing back at Sam, he moved hesitantly toward it. When he got closer, he could see it was an open doorway. Light spilled from behind him, illuminating a small patch of the expanse.

Something moved in the shadow at the edge of the light. "Someone _finally_ came," the voice said, and it was a familiar voice. Too familiar.

"Yeah, and who are you?" Dean asked, trying to get a look.

Slowly, the figure stepped into the light. Long, tattered jeans. A tan Carhart jacket. Floppy brown hair.

"Sam?" Dean asked. He looked over his shoulder at the other Sam in the distance. "But--what?"

"I was wondering if you'd do something stupid and show up in here."

It was a relief--trying to grasp the idea that Sam was gone had been more than Dean was ready to deal with. After everything Sam had dragged him through over the last year or so, losing Sam so suddenly would just be hard to take. There were things left to say and to do--Sam hadn't made amends yet, and, no matter how much crap Dean gave the kid, he still wanted that day. He wanted to make peace with Sam--it was the only way he'd ever get any closure, assuming, of course, he managed to stop the Apocalypse like Zachariah wanted him to.

Which meant it was game time. "I'm trying to get you to wake up, jackass," Dean groused. "You're sort of taking an extended nap in the real world."

Sam shrugged. "Not really my choice."

"Something keeping you here?" Dean asked.

"In a matter of speaking."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "How do you figure?" he asked. "You hit your head on a hunt--got knocked around pretty hard. The doctors say there could be damage."

"The others don't think it matters," Sam explained.

"The others?" Dean asked, not liking the sound of that. Perhaps brain damage was an option.

Sam nodded. "It's not the head injury that's really the problem," Sam told him. He leaned forward a little. "If you want to know a secret, we could have woken up days ago."

"We?"

"I'm not supposed to be here," this Sam said, looking suspiciously over his shoulder. "If the others caught wind of this, well, they'd be all over us in an instant." He looked back at Dean with a triumphant smile on his face. "Lucky for us, they're all so lost in themselves to know how to take advantage of the situation. They don't realize that this guy over here is down on the job." He nodded to the curled up Sam on the floor.

Dean shook his head, trying to clear it. "So you're telling me that you're Sam," he said. "And that that's Sam."

This Sam sighed, clearly exasperated. "Think about it, Dean. You're inside Sam's psyche. What you're seeing is how Sam sees himself. This is how we cope with things."

"By creating multiple versions?" Dean asked. "Isn't that a little, I don't know, insane?"

Sam laughed. "You don't think we managed to start the Apocalypse by being sane, do you? Besides, the others decided that this was the only way that it was safe to keep on existing. If we didn't section off certain...parts, then we'd be totally unfit for society."

Dean shook his head. "I'm not sure I follow."

"I'm not sure I do, either," Sam admitted. "I mean, look at him. Kind of pathetic, right? I think we could get a whole lot more done if we all worked together."

"Just how many Sams are we talking about in here?"

Sam shrugged. "I never took the time to count. Usually our votes are like fifty billion to one, so I learned to stop tallying up the opposition."

Perplexed, Dean looked back at the Sam on the floor. "So where are we? What is this place? And why are we here?"

"Here?" Sam asked, looking around. "This is Sam's conscious self. The parts of himself he lets out. The rest, they decided, were just too dangerous. This is all that is acceptable, or something."

"This?" Dean asked, looking in incredulity at the Sam on the floor.

"I know," Sam said with a knowing shake of his head. "I told them it would end up like this. This pathetic portion of us just isn't up to snuff. That's why we always needed so many layers, because what was safe and acceptable was just too little for words. But we feel awful about how it all went down, so this is what we decided was okay."

It was a little more than Dean could process. "But why here?"

Sam grinned. "Impressive, right?" Sam asked, sounding genuinely proud. "We thought a lot about this, and I have to say, this is the one thing I'm proud of. We wanted to create the worst possible environment, the best place to make sure that we atoned for what we'd done wrong. Of course, we considered a lot of options. We thought long and hard about recreating Hell, you know, with the rack and the torture and the fire and the screams. It seemed fitting. We also strongly considered the whole endless display of mistakes. You know, replaying Mom's death, Jess' death, your death, starting the Apocalypse--all that--ad nauseum until the end of time. But this--" Sam said, looking around proudly, "--was my idea. Pretty genius, if you think about it. Endless nothingness. Not even a memory. Just nothing and more nothing. You can't tell where you end and the darkness begins. Losing yourself, losing all sense of being, is the worst torture I can think of. No ability to do anything except regret.

It was a horrifyingly lucid plan, thought out with the attention to detail and the harsh logic that so defined Sam.

And yet, this wasn't the details for a hunt. This was a self-inflicted exile, a carefully measured and delivered penance that was shockingly cruel and apt in its delivery. Dean hadn't expected rainbows and lollipops, but the cold torture of Sam's own brain was unsettling to say the least.

He could deal with that later, though. First, he had to get Sam out.

"Well, I hate to break up the self-hate party," Dean said. "But if we don't get him to wake up, then you're all toast."

"That's what I tried to tell them," Sam said, with a condescending shake of his head.

"Well, then why don't we do it," Dean suggested.

"You haven't noticed that your little charge over there is already stark raving mad?"

"So, what?" Dean asked. "There's no hope for him?"

"You can't hope to work with him," Sam said, and he took to pacing, back and forth in front of Dean. He shrugged, almost to himself, offering Dean a flippant smile. "That's just the superficial layer, anyway. You have to go deeper than that."

"I'm talking to you, aren't I?" Dean asked, tired of this run around. He just wanted to find his brother, drag his whacked-out ass out of here, and get back to business. They would deal with the fallout to this--whatever that may be--once Sam was awake.

At that, Sam stopped, his eyes narrowing, looking fully at Dean. He held Dean's gaze for a moment, and in that moment, all the guises dropped away, revealing a starkly honest Sam, young and aged all at once. "And who am I, Dean?" Sam asked, taking a step closer.

It was such a simple question, but there was something to it that Dean was missing. There was an answer Sam wanted, one that seemed like it should be so obvious, and Dean had no idea what it was. He didn't understand any of this, not this Sam, not the other Sam, not the black punishment.

All he knew was that it made him as uncomfortable as Hell. A wave of tension passed over him, and he pulled himself to his full height. "How the Hell should I know?" Dean asked, feeling inexplicably defensive.

Sam seemed to sigh a little, then his lips quirked into a smile, with a hint of malice in his eyes. "Of all of us, I think you know me best," he said, and his voice lilting a little, almost with a singsong undertone.

Dean felt his inside twitch, a dreadful cold inching through him.

Sam leaned closer, his voice deep and lyrical. "I'm the one you saw even when the rest of us were trying to deny that I existed," he said. "You know, there's a reason they hardly ever listen to a word I say."

Dean's eyebrows furrowed and he swallowed a little, trying to push the apprehension back. But the coldness grew, solidifying in his stomach.. "Yeah? Why's that?"

Sam's smile widened and then his eyes--_his eyes turned black_. "Because I'm the one they've been keeping in check for as long as we've been alive," he said. "I'm the one you saw when Sam was killing demons with his mind, but I've been here all along."

It took everything Dean had not to recoil, but his chest tightened, his breath catching in his throat. This was what he had been afraid of, this was what he'd seen last year. It was his worst nightmare, that his brother was a monster, that he was right...

"Aw, Dean," Sam said, shaking his head, his eyes going back to normal. "I thought you said we were brothers, no matter what."

He had said that, but that didn't go for demons lurking in Sam's head or the demon blood that ran through the kid's veins. He would stand by his Sam, the boy he raised--this, on the other hand, was fair game. "Get the Hell out of my brother," he said, low and dangerous. "I want to talk to Sam."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're not getting it, Dean," he said. "I am Sam. Just like that is Sam. Just like all the Sam's in here. We broke it down, splintered off, because it's safer this way. There are more of them, more of those do-gooders who want to play by the rules. More of them who feel just awful about it all. Why else do you think we created this place? Why else do you think I'm all by myself? I'm powerless in here, and they'd rather be powerless altogether than to risk letting me out."

Dean shook his head. "I just want my brother," he said.

"Fine," Sam said, with a sigh. "You want your brother, I'll take you to your brother. But, let me warn you. It's not going to be pretty."

"Oh, and you are?" Dean snapped.

Sam inclined his head, eyes darkening ever so briefly. "Be careful what you wish for," Sam said. "You think you know your brother, but if you think that I'm the worst of it, you're in for a not so pleasant surprise."

The question rose in Dean's throat, but he didn't have a chance to ask it.

Suddenly the darkness split, flooding the area with light. Dean was drawn through inexplicably, and he barely had time to catch his breath as he tumbled into it.

-o-

It was mere seconds, maybe minutes. Time was off here, skewed and distorted, and the very fabric of the existence felt strained and unsettled.

He blinked, and he realized there was shape in the light. Blinking again, shadows danced across his vision, and the light receded just enough that he could see.

Bobby's panic room.

At first, Dean thought he was alone. The room was as barren as the night he'd lock Sam in it--the sparest of furniture and the lone pitcher of water. Walking around, Dean ran his hands along the walls, thick and impenetrable metal. He lingered at the door, trying the handle and finding it tight. The window slot was closed tight.

Moving away from it, Dean walked to the bed, letting his eyes trail to the ceiling. The fan circled lazily, and its meager light made the place seem even more lonely.

He kept walking, going to the table, fingering the pitcher, before turning back toward the door. "This is ridiculous," he muttered. "Sam! Come on, buddy! I thought we were going to talk about this!"

His own voice echoed off the walls, resounding in his ears. No reply came except his own pleas.

Frowning, he went to the door, pounding on it. "Sammy! I can't help you if you don't come talk to me!"

Still, nothing.

Swearing, Dean ran a hand over his face, turning back to the room. This was ridiculous. He had things to do. He came to Sam's mind to help bring his brother back, not get lost in the mess that was his brother's head.

Well, that was okay. If Sam didn't want to talk, they didn't have to talk. Dean would just grab him and haul ass. But first--he had to get out.

Turning to the walls, he ran his fingers along them, looking for some sign of weakness. But, it was solid and secure, designed to protect, to keep things out--but Dean had to admit, being locked in was slightly unnerving.

For a second, Dean had to wonder what it had been like for Sam. To yell and scream for help and have no one answer. How many hours had it lasted? How many pleas had Sam made? And how many had Dean ignored? Worse, how many had he returned with blithe insults while Sam was suffering?

There'd been no option. Sam made his bed; he had to sleep in it.

Swallowing hard, Dean tried to believe that as he looked around the room again.

And then he saw him.

How a man Sam's size could fit in so small a space was beyond him. But, there Sam was, curled into a ball, tucked miserably into a corner, face pressed against the metal wall.

Dean's resolve faltered. His attempts to leave were thwarted by the big brotherly instinct to take care of Sam.

Slowly, he made his way over to his brother. "Sam?" he called. "Can you hear me?"

There was a whimper and Sam shuddered visibly.

Flinching, Dean kneeled next to him, trying to get a look at his brother's face.

What he saw was painfully familiar. Garish features and pale coloring--Sam looked horrible.

Collecting himself, he spoke gently. "Sammy? You think we can talk?"

Sam's eyes drifted open, focusing on Dean slowly. "Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean said, trying to sound reassuring. "It's me."

"I hoped you'd come," Sam told him, his voice wispy. "It's so lonely in here. Like I could get lost. Like I don't exist. I'd be better if I didn't exist."

It was hard to listen to, but Dean reminded himself that this wasn't the point. He just needed to get Sam out of here. "Hey, it's okay," he said. "I think maybe it's time to go."

Sam shook his head lazily. "I have to stay," he said. "You locked the door. Told me I deserved it. I deserve it."

Dean remembered that, and, seeing Sam like this, it was hard not to feel guilty. There had been truth to it, of course, but seeing Sam like this--now it just seemed like kicking Sam when he was down.

"I'm thirsty," Sam said, and he squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm so thirsty."

"There's water," Dean pointed out, glancing at the pitcher on the table."

"Illusion," Sam mumbled. "Every time I go to it, I can't grab it."

Dean's conscience twinged. Bobby had been adamant about leaving the water, but neither of them had really considered whether or not Sam would be capable of drinking it on his own.

Sam swallowed dryly, laughing a little. His eyes cracked open and his lips were chapped. "I don't deserve it," he said. "Just another demon problem."

Leaving Sam locked inside hadn't been easy by any stretch of the imagination. But Dean realized with acute certainty that it was far easier than being in there with Sam. The seizure itself had almost left Dean undone. This? Was worse than the begging, worse than the pleading. Worse than the screams.

This was heartbreaking.

Sam was broken. He was spent and alone. He couldn't drink. He couldn't go to the bathroom. He couldn't do _anything_. Except be lost--and _alone_--in his delusions.

Dean couldn't be sure how he'd done it then, how he'd let himself believe that there was no other choice.

This time, Sam's head or not, Dean couldn't let his brother suffer like this.

"Come on," Dean coaxed, pulling on Sam's arm. "Why don't we get you to the bed."

Sam shook his head, pulling into himself. "I was there," Sam said. "Tied me down. Alastair, first. Torture. Torture and more torture. What I should have had. What Dean did for me."

Dean swallowed a little and forced himself to stay with it. "Not so boo hoo now, is it, Sammy?"

Sam just shook his head. "Dean needed me," he said. "He needed me to be strong, even when he didn't want to admit it. He needed me to carry the load. I wanted to. I let him go to Hell, I wanted to do this. I want to kill Lilith for him. For all of us. Be a Winchester."

Dean pulled his hand away, stiffening a little. "I don't need to be protected, Sam," he said. "I can handle myself. I'm not the one who went off the deep end this year."

At that, Sam blinked, turning strained eyes up at him. "But that's what Winchesters do," he said. "You told me to remember. I remember. When one of us is weak, the others pick up the slack. You went to Hell for me. I had to make sacrifices, too."

Dean couldn't help but snort a little. "So sucking demon blood? Shacking up with Ruby? Those are your sacrifices for me, dude? What makes you think I'd want anything to do with any of that?"

"I didn't want you to go to Hell for me, and you did it for me anyway," Sam told him. "Winchesters make the ends justify the means. No matter what. You and Dad and Mom. My turn. I was ready for it to be my turn. Even if it cost me everything."

Dean looked at his brother, looked at the shaking frame and the sunken face. There was determination there. There was sadness and grief and brokenness and pure grit--but there was no regret. Sam had sold himself out, given over his soul, and wasn't looking back. It was a determination Dean recognized in himself after he made the deal in the first place. As much as he'd hated the consequences, he could never be sorry he did it.

At least, that used to be the case. Until Sam betrayed him.

But had Sam really betrayed him? Sam had betrayed himself. Sam had given up his dreams and his hopes and his _everything_ just to try to make it right for Dean.

He was so _angry_ at Sam--and Sam was angry at himself. More than that, Sam hated himself. It was a harsh truth, one that was easier to overlook than deal with.

It wasn't something he liked to think about. That his anger at Sam was just a distraction from the fact that his brother was a mess inside. Not that it made Sam's decisions right, but being mad at Sam didn't fix it. There were problems here Dean didn't know how to grasp.

Sam started shaking with more intensity, his eyes pleading. "I just wish I knew," he said.

"Knew what?"

"Who I am," Sam said. "Who am I, Dean?"

There was a vulnerability in the question that made Dean's heart ache. Sam looked so young--the pale face and stringy hair could be a six year old Sam with the flu. Dean's protective instincts were still strong, and he wondered how he'd done this. How he'd locked Sam up without a second thought, how he'd ignored his brothers screams and said _at least he'll die human_. It seemed impossible to witness such pain and agony and do _nothing_. No matter what Sam had done to get himself there, no one deserved that. Especially not Dean's little brother.

Gently, Dean crouched, putting a steady hand on his brother's shoulder. "You're just messed up right now. But I can fix it, okay?"

Shaking, Sam's face twitched. "And what is that worth?"

Dean's mouth opened, then closed. He licked his lips, his hand lingering on Sam's shoulder. His brother's eyes were still on him, bloodshot and desperate and unrelenting.

"It's worth seeing you suffer like this," Dean said. "Because I know I can save you. It's not easy, but we can be brothers again. Like we used to be. You just have to leave this behind, trust me. When have I ever led you wrong?"

Sam kept his eyes on him, though it was a visible effort. He licked dry lips, and shook his head. "You were wrong about me," he said. "You used to believe I was worth it. You don't anymore. That's why you locked me in here. Because I'm evil. I can never be your brother after this. Because when you locked that door, Dean, you made your stand. Even if I survive this, part of me will never come out."

Sam closed his eyes, turning away, as new tremors wracked his body. A tear slipped from Sam's shut eyes and he shook his head again.

"I turned myself into a monster," he whispered. "There is no going back. The real Dean locked me in here. You're just a hallucination, just like the rest of them."

Dean had never thought of it like that. He had been so desperate to fix Sam, that it hadn't really occurred to him what Sam felt about it. Sam was sucking demon blood, skanking around with Ruby, lying to him: what else was Dean supposed to do?

But there was something wrong about this. Something so wrong. That Sam would question his validity not because of Dean's supposed cruelty, but rather, his compassion. Sam didn't doubt that he was a monster who deserved to be locked up.

And he didn't blame Dean for it. No, Sam just couldn't believe that the Dean, here and now, offering him gentle understanding and reassurance was real.

It was like being in the cabin with his father all those years ago, and the only tip off that things had gone horribly wrong being how proud John was...

"Sam," he said, hoping to find the words. "Come on, it's not--"

Sam's eyes snapped open, frantic and panicked, and then, without warning, his body went straight and rigid. The massive body fell hard to the floor, and it was hard for Dean to remind himself that this was only a manifestation, that this wasn't Sam.

The seizure took hold, fast and hard. Sam's entire body thrashed with it, thumping painfully into the sparse confines of the panic room. Sam's eyes were open, eyeballs rolled back, and blood seeped from Sam's mouth.

Manifestation or not, Dean couldn't sit by and let Sam suffer--at least, not anymore.

Going to his knees, he sought some way to make it stop--to make Sam stop. "Sam," he said. "Sammy, come on!"

But the thrashing continued, more violently now, and Sam made a low keening noise as he reeled like a fish out of water.

Like death throes.

If Sam died here, was it possible Sam was dying in the real world, too?   
Dean had to swallow hard against that thought, as he sought out Sam again. "Sam! Sammy, come on!"

He remembered his line: _at least he'll die human._

It was harder to face now.

"Sam!"

Sam's body went taut, head strained back, limbs stiff as boards. He made a gurgling noise, before he began choking.

"No, no, no," Dean muttered, moving closer. He worked at Sam's mouth, trying to open it, but it was locked shut.

Sam was going a little blue, fresh blood smeared on his face.

"Sam, snap out of it!"

But Sam was dying, Dean realized. Sam was _dying_ and Dean couldn't do anything about it.

The hardest truth was that Sam had been dying before and Dean hadn't been _willing_ to do anything about it.

"Sam!" he yelled again, hoping to make him hear him, to make Sam listen, but it was too late...too little...and Dean found himself fading out.

-o-

Dean wasn't sure what he expected, but the thin clapboard walls were a bit of a surprise. The room was drafty, probably thanks to the gaps in the planks that made up the walls.

It was a cabin of sorts, and, even by Winchester standards, it was pretty pathetic. It even smelled funny--rank and musty and sort of like there was something dead buried beneath the floor somewhere.

So clearly, he was still in Sam's head.

Though, really, he had to hand it to Sam. These were pretty vivid memories. Right down to the mouse that scurried across the floor.

The vividness, while impressive, only accentuated just how bad of a place this was. Dean tried to think--what memory could this be? He'd been in the panic room, which was easy enough to identify, but this place? Didn't ring any bells. Sure, they'd squatted on piece of crap properties before and hunted in some that were pretty run down, but this? Sort of took the cake.

Moving around, Dean could see among the filth, that it was in fact being lived in. There were sheets on the bed, a ratted out pillow at its head. There was a dish and a cup on the table and Sam's duffel was heaped on dilapidated dresser.

More than being lived in, it was Sam who seemed to be doing the living, though it was pretty hard to tell. Aside from Sam's meager belongings, the place was a pit, with the bed unmade and the dishes dirty. Sam was fastidious on his worst days, and it was only when Dean was making fun of him or forcing him out the door that Sam let it slide.

But Sam had let it more than slide. Sam had let it literally fall apart.

Then there was a groan.

Surprised, Dean turned around. From the shadowed corner, Sam's looming body emerged, fumbling with one hand at his fly, a bottle of something that smelled foul from the other.

With a stagger, Sam gave Dean a look, moving past him and collapsing heavily on the bed. The kid looked like he was ready to pass out, which, given the heavy scent of alcohol that Dean could smell, seemed about right.

But this wasn't his little brother getting a little too carried away on karaoke night. This was his little brother's head, and Dean really didn't know if he had time to mess around in here. Not to mention the metaphysical headache he got when he contemplated Sam unconscious in his unconscious mind.

Besides, all this begged the question: "Dude, what the Hell are you doing?"

Sam's eyes slitted open and he managed something like a glare. "What the Hell are you doing?" he asked back.

"I'm trying to figure out what's going on in here."

"I'm trying to get drunk," Sam replied shortly. "And you're totally screwing it up."

Dean shook his head, moving toward Sam. He fisted his hands in his brother's shirt, hauling him to his feet. Sam stumbled and cursed, pulling away from Dean with the vehemence of a petulant child. "You're dead anyway," Sam whined. "Can't you leave me alone for five minutes?"

"Apparently not," Dean said. "Since you've gone off and got yourself drunk out of your mind."

Sam actually laughed at that, deep and head thrown back. "I thought about swallowing a bullet, but the alcohol seemed a little less destructive."

Dean didn't know whether to be pissed off or terrified. In the end, he was both. "So this is what you did? Instead of getting me out, you sat here and got drunk?"

Sam's humor diminished. "I tried _everything_," he said, leaning in close. "I offered them my damned soul and what did they say? They didn't want it. Probably because it's damned anyway. Why trade for me when they've already got me, right? That'd be just plain crappy business. And demons suck but they're not _stupid_. I'm _stupid_."

"For getting drunk?" Dean admonished. "Hell, yeah. What about the hunt? What if something comes after you?"

"Then it better have an acquired taste for Jack Daniels because I think my entire stomach might be full of it," Sam said, and he took a swig for good measure.

Annoyed, Dean could only glare. "I can't believe you're wasting it."

"I can't believe _you_ wasted it," Sam shot back. "Everything Dad sacrificed to bring you back, and you throw your life away on _me_. The demons don't even want me and yet you just sold your soul all willy nilly."

"Willy nilly?"

"So I get a little hillbilly when I'm drunk," Sam slurred. "Bobby would be proud. Well, he'd be proud if he loved me. But he just misses you. I was in the way, I think. And I think it pissed him off when I drank his scotch."

"He was trying to look out for you, asshole," Dean said. "Which, you clearly need."

And then some. Sam was a mess. Like a two year old without adult supervision, Sam had made a mess of everything. Drunk and dirty, stupid and standoffish--it was embarrassing. It was hurtful. While Dean was being tortured in Hell, Sam was getting drunk.

Sam's nose scrunched up. "He was only thinking of _you_," Sam said. "He loved you like a son. He loved me like your brother."

"You don't know anything," Dean said.

"And you do?" Sam shot back, indignantly.

Dean didn't back down. He could feel sorry for the Sam in the panic room--but this was harder. This was drunkenness--sloppy and self pitying. He was in Sam's head trying to drag his brother the Hell out, and Sam was taking him on a rambling trip through a drunken escapade. He didn't have time for it.

And in light of Hell, it just looked damned pathetic.

"Yeah, I do," Dean said. "I know I sold my soul so you could do better than this." He shook his head. "Sam, you were the lucky one here. You didn't have to suffer like I did, and what? You try to make yourself miserable just for kicks?"

"You think I was the lucky one, Dean?" he asked, throwing his hands out. "You think I'm the _lucky_ one? Every night I go to sleep, you're in Hell. Every morning I wake up, and you're in Hell. Every hunt I go on, you're in Hell. Every person I talk to, every meal I eat, every movie I watch, _you're in Hell_. And worse, _it's all my fault_. I don't deserve to live, I never have, and yet, here I am. So damn lucky that I don't even know what to _do_ with myself."

For a second, Dean was taken aback. It was an outburst Dean hadn't expected. It was harsh and difficult, but Dean could see where it was flawed. "Well, it certainly wasn't me who was lucky," Dean snapped. "Four months alone? Try forty years in _Hell_."

"Yeah?" Sam asked, his eyebrows raised in defiance. "At least you got to _choose_. At least you got to die the good Winchester. At least you got to die before you saw me like _this_--"

Sam motioned to himself, the dirty clothes and the sunken cheeks, before shaking his head.

"At least you got to die a hero, rather than live a _failure_. What was it you said, Dean, before you died? Before I watched the hounds rip you to shreds? _Remember what I taught you_?" Sam paused, tilting his head, taking a slow step forward. His voice dropped, deep and gravelly. "Remember that a good son makes the sacrifice. That a Winchester sells his soul." Sam took another step, his mouth twisted in rage. "That what you do with someone's legacy doesn't mean a damn thing--it's just too little, too late. Remember that, Dean?" Sam closed the gap, wrapping his hands in his brother shirt and shaking, yelling in Dean's face. "_Remember that_?"

Sam let go, his hands dropping to his sides. The fire died in Sam's gaze and he sunk miserably to the dilapidated couch. Taking another swig, Sam just shook his head. "You're not here anyway," he said. "I hear you, I see you, I feel you, but you're never here. I bought an iPod just to get you out of my head, to keep myself from going crazy. I tried watching movies you like, I tried looking at your porn, but none of it makes any difference. What the Hell does it matter what I do? You're already dead--you're already gone--you're in Hell. I lost. I screwed up. And I can never get you back. Too little, too late. If there was anyone to give a damn, it could go on my freakin' tombstone."

Dean's brow furrowed and he swallowed hard. There was a lot there--between the rage and the self-loathing, Dean saw something he'd never wanted to see. He saw his brother falling apart. He had to admit, when he'd found Sam shacked up with a girl, when he'd found the iPod, learned about the movies--he'd been hurt. He'd gone to Hell for the kid, and Dean had figured the least Sam could do was miss him.

But he'd missed it. All the while he'd thought Sam was okay, his brother was dead inside. Sam couldn't grieve, because he'd given it all up. Suddenly, Sam's allegiance to Ruby made sense. Dean had known she'd saved Sam's life, but he'd never fathomed just how lost Sam had been. He'd been drowning and Ruby had thrown him a lifeline. Who was Dean to resent the fact he'd accepted?

He just hadn't known. He hadn't known about the loathing. He hadn't known about the fatalism. He hadn't known that Sam had rid himself of every good emotion so he could just function.

But then again, he'd never asked.

It was no mystery, suddenly, when Sam had changed. The fact that it ever had been was a little astounding, especially since it was a despair and desolation Dean recognized--one Dean had lived for those few interminable days after Cold Oak. It was the feeling that had driven Dean to the crossroads, no questions asked.

"But maybe I should ask you," Sam said, stepping forward a little. His eyes narrowed and he swallowed hard. "I should ask you, since you know everything. With all of this, with you dead and in Hell and me all alone, I just want to know one thing. Who am I?"

It was a question Dean had thought about, especially during all the lies. Most of the time, his idea of Sam had been colored with expletives and derogatory comments about following Ruby around. But there was more to it.

Sam hadn't forgotten him. Sam hadn't spited him. Sam had done exactly what Dean should have expected him to do, what Dean had told him to do. Even if Dean had never intended it, this was what Dean had taught him. This was what Dad had taught him.

He sighed. He licked his lips, looking at Sam steadily. He looked beyond the bloodshot eyes. He looked beyond the sallow cheeks. He looked beyond all of it, and saw the man Sam still was inside--the man Dean had to believe Sam still was.. "You're my legacy," he said.

Sam's countenance wavered. His lips curled into something like a pained smirk. "Yeah? And what is that worth?"

"It's worth fighting," Dean told him. "You're better than this. I know you are."

Sam laughed at that, and he shook his head. "I knew I shouldn't have asked you," he said. "You still believe that. That I'm better than this. That I was worth it. Someday you'll figure it out, Dean. Someday."

"Sam, come on," Dean said. "You can't--"

"I can!" Sam snapping, turning on Dean in a rage. He pushed Dean roughly, and Dean stumbled surprised. "I can, okay? Just leave me the Hell alone!"

Dean held his hands out in placation but Sam shoved him again, and Dean found himself tumbling backward. Instead of hitting the wall, though, he kept falling and falling and falling.

-o-

And then he was in a diner.

Eating something with sausage.

Dean couldn't help but grin. "Hey, pignapoke," he said.

Looking up, he found Sam staring at him. "You don't even like it that much."

Dean's smile faltered. "Dude, I haven't even taken a bite yet."

"Which is why you're still excited," Sam told him. "It's sausage and eggs. Side of toast. It's more than a bit of a let down."

Dean looked his plate and frowned. "Buzz kill," he muttered. Sighing, he looked up. "Where are we anyway?"

"Where does it look like?"

"Some crap-ass diner," Dean said. "Like the rest of them."

"Yep."

"Okay, so _when_ is this?"

Sam laughed at that outright. "Oh, come on, this one shouldn't be hard," Sam said. "It's Tuesday. It's Tuesday and Tuesday and _Tuesday_."

"Erm, okay," Dean said. He chewed his lip, putting down his fork. "Trickster?"

"Trickster. Not that I've figured that out yet. Not that it matters if I do. See, that's the problem with demi-gods. They can control it all. I can't even kill him. So I can find him, day after day, I can threaten him, I can make demands, and he doesn't have to do a damn thing. I threaten, he starts us over. I threaten, he kills you. I threaten, he kills me. I threaten, I kill myself. I threaten, it's Wednesday, but it's not really Wednesday because you still die and I'm still here and Tuesday still comes once a week and I can't do a thing about it. It's like, want a lesson in futility? Here, have a _Tuesday_. Then, in case you didn't pick up on how powerless, worthless, and pathetic you really are, have another _two hundred Tuesdays_."

"Yeah, okay," Dean said slowly. "I know how much this really must suck and all, but we've got to talk about this."

"Talk about what?" Sam asked. He cocked his head, looking off into nothing. "Maybe we should talk about breakfast. Pignapoke? Short stack? Maybe the old guy and the car. Or the desk. Talking about the desk is fun. The human body, after all, can apparently get really, really flat."

Dean opened his mouth to try to avoid the diatribe from continuing, but he never got the chance.

"Oh!" he said, looking at Dean fully. His eyes were bright and wild. Sliding out of the booth, he stood, looking at Dean with exceitment "I know what we should talk about. How about how you're going to Hell? How you're gong to Hell and it's my fault and it's my fault that you died today and tomorrow and the day after that and forever? Just like it'll be my fault every day you're in Hell. Because I screwed up. I always screw up. And you'll die because I'm a screw up and you're following orders when I can't. Why don't we talk about that?"

"Sam," Dean said. "Just. _Stop_."

Sam looked at him, surprised and incredulous. "Stop? Stop what? Stop screwing up? Stop breathing? I've tried. I have. I can't. I can't do _anything_."

"No, just--this isn't really your fault."

"This? You mean Tuesday? Or Wednesday? Or Hell?"

That gave Dean pause. He wasn't sure what he was talking about. He just needed Sam to stop talking, because this wasn't getting them anywhere. He needed to get Sam out--not lost deeper in his brother's screwed up psyche. "All of it?" Dean ventured uncertainly, looking for anything to bring his brother from the manic pace of conversation.

Sam stared at him. "All of it? Really?"

Dean saw his opening and took it. "Yeah, I mean, this? Is the Trickster," he said. "Annoying son of a bitch, but you got to let it go. This is what he wants."

"So it's my fault," Sam said.

"What?"

"That it's still going," Sam said. "If I could handle it better, then we wouldn't still be here. Just like if I had killed Jake in Cold Oak, I wouldn't have died and you wouldn't have made the deal. Or maybe it started back in Stanford. If I hadn't gotten Jess killed--no, it was when Dad was possessed--no, it was going to college. No! I got it! It was being born. If I could just figure that out--"

It was too much. Information overload in the extreme. "Sam, seriously, I _will_ hit you," Dean interjected.

Sam stopped short. "Okay."

Dean stopped. "Okay?"

"Do it," Sam said.

"Do what?"

"Hit me," Sam said. He sounded almost excited about. "I think that would work."

"Hitting you would work?"

Sam nodded, and he took to pacing. "Hitting me might make things better. We haven't tried that before. Maybe hitting me will, I don't know, set some kind of cosmic scale right."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Sam--"

But Sam was going, full tilt now. "I deserve to be hit, obviously. Actually, it might be best if you beat me up. You know, do some kind of damage. It might change the Tuesday. Impress the Trickster."

"Sam--"

"I've never tried putting myself in the hospital before. I've always been focused on killing myself outright, not just incapacitating myself."

And that was about all Dean could take before he actually _did_ put Sam in the hospital.

Metaphysically speaking, since the real Sam actually was in the hospital, which was, of course, the problem here.

Too bad this Sam was even crazier than the addict. And far less reasonable than the drunk.

"Just--_shut up_," Dean said, forcefully.

Sam bristled a little, his brow knitted together, but he fell silent.

Dean blew out a breath. "You just need to chill a little, okay?"

"Chill?" Sam asked. "How do you expect me to chill when you _keep dying_?"

"I'm here now, aren't I?"

"Because the Trickster brought you back! And the angels! I have no control over that! What happens when they decide _not_ to?"

Dean winced a little. That wasn't a pleasant thought, but that wasn't the point. "We'll deal with that when he comes."

"But it does come," Sam said. "For me, it comes every day. Every day I have to wonder. Every day I have to know I'm a failure. Every day."

"Not every day," Dean reminded him. "We get out of this."

Sam shook his head. "I never get out of this. This is my destiny. To try and to fail. To try and to fail. Again and again and again and--"

Dean's eyes widened and he held up his hand. "Dude, I get it. And I get that this is hard--"

Sam's jaw dropped. "Hard? Hard was managing to get a 4.0 while moving schools every three months. Hard was working three jobs while trying to put myself through Stanford. Hard is trying to listen to your music. This? This isn't hard. This is the inevitable story of my life. All these questions, keep circling back. How do I save Dean? How do I be the good son? How do I do _anything_?"

"Dude, those are questions we _all_ ask," Dean told him, leaning forward intently.

"But you have answers," Sam told him. "You have answers that matter. Mine just make more questions."

"No, they don't," Dean said. "It's not that simple. I mean, just ask me."

Sam threw his arms up. "But it is," he said. "Tuesday after Tuesday, the questions all come out the same. I fail. I lose. It's that simple."

"You've got to look beyond this loop, man."

"Beyond the loop? Beyond the loop?" Sam's voice rose dangerously. "My entire _life_ is a loop. Try to be a good son, fail. Try to be normal, fail. Try to avenge girlfriend, fail. Try to save Dean, fail. Try, try, try, try, _fail_. And so I don't know what else to do. I can't figure it out. I can't do it, I can't, I can't, I _can't_."

"Then stop!" Dean said. "You don't have to figure it out."

"But I _do_," Sam told him. "How else do I make it stop?"

"Dude, you're asking me?"

"You told me to ask you."

"I did not."

"You did."

"When?"

"Before."

"Are you sure?"

"Have you lived this day five hundred times?"

Dean's brow creased.

"You're supposed to tell me to ask again."

"What?"

"Tell me to ask again."

Dean's mouth opened and closed. There was a sudden futility in this that Dean couldn't fight.

"_Tell me_," Sam said, insistently.

It took a moment for Dean to find his voice, but he forced it to work. "Ask again," Dean said.

Sam seemed to shudder at that, but he pulled himself straight, his chin raised, as if he were playing a part. "Who am I?"

Dean hesitated, looking at his brother. His eyes were a little wild and his entire body was wound tightly. He looked like he was ready to explode, turned around so many times, Dean sincerely doubted Sam knew which way was up at all. Sam was just going on--keeping on the same path because he didn't know what else to do. Maybe because he had nothing else to do.

"You're just a kid who's trying too hard," Dean said, as carefully as he could. "You're just one person. You can't change everything."

"Yeah?" Sam asked. "And what is that worth?"

"It's...it's not worth anything, kiddo," Dean said. "That's just how it is."

Sam nodded tightly. "See. It's Tuesday. Another futile Tuesday. It doesn't matter what I do, it all ends up the same."

Then Sam pulled out his pistol, pointing it to his head.

Dean gasped, hands going out. "Whoa, Sammy, what are you doing?"

"Don't worry," Sam said. "You said it yourself. It doesn't matter anyway. I'll wake up and it'll still be Tuesday, and it'll be another day I can't save you."

"Come on, Sam--"

Then his brother pulled the trigger, and the scene went white.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Hopefully chapter two isn't a let down. There's a lot more of Sam for Dean to get through. I will be posting the remaining two parts after this every other day. All my other notes and disclaimers in the first chapter :) Thanks!

CHAPTER TWO

_Let him know that you know best_

_Cause after all you do know best_

_Try to slip past his defense_

_Without granting innocence_

_Lay down a list of what is wrong_

_The things you've told him all along_

_And pray to God he hears you_

_And pray to God he hears you _

-from "How to Save a Life" by The Fray

-o-

White turned to black and it took a moment before Dean realized where he was.

The dark expanse from before. Teeth grinding together, he looked around, and he found the same Sam who had taken him through the door in the first place.

His eyes were hazel, but Dean could see the darkness lurking there anyway. "What the Hell?" he accused. "I thought you were going to let me talk to my brother."

"And I thought I explained this to you," this Sam said again. "I _am_ your brother. They were _all_ your brother. Just different parts of him."

"What?" Dean snapped. "The suicidal addict psycho?"

Sam considered that, frowning a little. Then he nodded. "There's a lot of that in here."

It was so a matter of fact that it took Dean by surprise. He knew Sam was off, but to think he was still an addict? That he was suicidal? That he might have been off his rocker since the Trickster?

Dean had always sort of known it was hard on Sam--Hell, lots of things had been hard on Sam over the years. But the kid coped--he always coped--until he just...hadn't. Until Sam just went off the deep end and decided that demon blood and sleeping with Ruby might be a good idea.

Unless...unless Sam didn't go off the deep end because he was blind and stupid. Unless Sam went off the deep end because he was suicidal. Sam had said Ruby had saved his life. Maybe Dean just hadn't paid enough attention.

"You putting it together?" Sam asked. "A little hard to think about, huh? Try _living _in here _all the time_ and see how well you fare."

Dean's eyes narrowed. Suicidal addicts or not, Dean didn't come here to take a walk through Sam's psyche. Well, he did, but this wasn't a leisurely stroll. This wasn't even friendly. He just needed to get Sam back in the world of the living. Then, maybe, he could deal with this. "Look, I don't know what game you're playing--"

The Sam held up his hands. "I'm not playing any games."

"Then just let me talk to my brother," Dean said. "Not these whacked out memories. _My brother_."

The Sam didn't look amused. He rolled his eyes. "Dense, dense, _dense_," he said. "You want the conscious Sam? Then you can go groping through the dark and try to find him again. The rest of them are your best bet."

"The best bet for what? Going crazy?"

"For figuring a way out of here."

"I just need a one-two-three wake up, and I'm good to go," Dean said back, pulling away defensively.

Sam's eyes darkened and he smiled. "I thought you wanted to get your brother out?"

"I'm not going to mess around with this crap," Dean said. Because he wanted to help Sam, not get lost in his head with _this_. "And I ought to exorcise you right out of here."

Sam laughed at that. "Please, try," he said. "You think the others haven't?"

"So you _are_ an outsider."

"If I was an outsider, I think it would have worked by now."

There was a truth to that, but still. This was a game--one Dean didn't need to play. He needed simple answers, straightforward truths, not _this._ "Then take me to a Sam I can reason with."

"So, let me get this straight," Sam said. "You're not such a fan of the crazy version. You're not particularly fond of the addict. You'd really rather not deal with the unhinged Sam. And you really don't seem keen on me. So what do you want?"

"Try a Sam I can _reason_ with," Dean said. "You know, one who's not so friggin' nuts."

"Good luck with that one."

Dean charged forward. He was trapped in his brother's head with some smart-ass, black-eyed version of the kid. This should have been a simple in and out job, and Dean still wasn't sure what he could trust and what he couldn't.

He wrapped his fingers in Sam's shirt and shook him. He felt real and the doe eyed look on the kid's face was so _Sam_ that it almost gave him pause. "I just want my brother, you asshole," he said. "Before I end you once and for all."

"Okay, okay," Sam relented. "One Sam, not quite buckets of crazy. Got it."

Dean stepped back, letting go. He evened his breath out. "I just want to get out of here."

"You're free to leave any time you want," Sam said, making a sweeping motion with his arms.

"_With_ my brother."

Sam made a face. "That's a little bit more difficult."

"So let me talk to a Sam who can help me figure it out."

Sam nodded. "I think I know just the one."

"Yeah? One who's not a freakin' psycho?"

"Sure," Sam said. He smiled a little, waggling his eyebrows. "One totally sane Sam, coming right up."

Dean took a breath, steeled himself as best he could, and the scene blinked out.

-o-

It was the air Dean noticed first.

Fresh and cold. It smelled like dirt and death.

It was night. He was on a beaten street. Western style buildings loomed above him in the shadows.

Dean's heart clenched.

It couldn't be.

He heard his own voice call out. "Sam!"

Dean didn't want to look. He knew what he would see. And yet, it was impossible not to.

He turned slowly, one foot in front of the other, until he was facing down the muddy path. He saw himself, crouched in the mud, his brother's slack body in his arms.

Dead.

Of all the memories, of all the moments--Dean had not wanted to relive this one. That feeling of loss, of failure--it seared through him with a fresh intensity that left him feeling sick.

"You should have left me here," Sam voice came suddenly.

Dean startled, looking beside him. Sam was there, staring out at the scene. He looked wistful and sad, and almost faded around the edges. Then, Sam turned toward him, his body flickering and Dean realized what he was seeing.

Sam's spirit.

Sam was dead.

Of course he'd known Sam was dead--the cooling limp body had been kind of hard to forget--but to see his spirit, to know it had departed from his brother's body--it was a whole new kind of pain.

"You should have burned me, so there was never any chance of coming back," Sam continued. He shook his head. "It's what I wanted."

"You were dead, Sam," Dean told him flatly. "You didn't get a vote."

At that, Sam looked at him. "I could say the same to you."

It wasn't said in malice, but it hit Dean hard just the same. "You telling me that me making the deal is the same as you skanking around with Ruby?"

Sam just looked weary. His features were tired and worn, and the paleness of death did nothing to help. Sam made a soft approximation of a bitchface and sighed again. "The decision to live or die is the greatest thing we have."

"Jake didn't ask you that," Dean said coolly.

"And neither did you," Sam replied just as evenly.

Dean squared his shoulders. He would not apologize for this. He glanced again at the scene behind them. Bobby was there now, pulling Dean away, trying to see, trying to understand--

He looked back at Sam's spirit. "You didn't deserve this."

"And I didn't deserve to be brought back," Sam countered.

"So that's why you brought me here?" Dean snapped. "To make me feel guilty for looking out for you?"

"I didn't bring you here to teach you anything about yourself," Sam said.

"Then why are we here, huh?" Dean said. "Because these trips down memory lane are so much fun, but back in the real world, you're _dying_."

Sam smiled ruefully. "A bit of irony," he said.

Dean was not amused. "Let just blow this joint," Dean said plainly. He looked again. He saw himself sobbing now, clutching Sam, while Bobby could do nothing but put a hand on his shoulder and ride it out.

"I don't get to make that choice."

Dean swore. "You do. This is your memory. Your head. You call the shots."

Sam looked back at the scene and shook his head. "I can't be trusted," he said. He looked back at Dean. "Isn't that why you made the deal? Because it wasn't my choice anymore."

Dean groaned. "That's so not the same."

"Powerless is powerless," Sam said. "I've been fighting for control my entire life, but it's always been a fallacy. Every time I thought I had it--at Stanford, standing up to Jake--it was taken away from me. All actions lead to the same end. That's destiny."

"That's not destiny," Dean snapped. "There's no such thing as destiny."

Sam just cocked his head a little. "I fought against the demon's plans for me. I refused to kill Jake when I had the chance. I did that right, and yet I was still the last one standing when it was over. Destiny. I could have killed Jake right away or I could let him live, and it would have still worked out the same."

There was logic to that, but Dean refused to buy it. "It's not destiny," he said. "It's just crappy bad luck. It's just unfair."

"Whoever said that destiny was fair?" Sam said.

Dean didn't have an answer for that.

Sam shrugged. "You have a destiny, too. It's why Castiel pulled you out. It's why the demon let you make the deal in the first place. Because it was destiny. You were chosen to do great things."

"Yeah, well, destiny can shove its greatness."

Sam smiled a little. "It's yours whether you want it or not. Just like this is mine."

"Just like what?"

"This," Sam said and he nodded toward the scene. Bobby was holding Dean now, a fierce hug designed to restrain as much as comfort. Sam's body was limp on the cold, wet ground. "Death and destruction."

"You can't believe that."

"It doesn't matter if I believe it," Sam said. "Just watch it. It's true."

Dean closed his eyes. He didn't want to watch. He didn't even want to remember. He just wanted to get out of here.

"I've watched this happen a thousand times," Sam continued. "And every time it happens, I am faced with the same answers. The same fate. I died here. You brought me back to life, but it was never the same. I was never the same."

Dean's jaw locked and he opened his eyes and fixed Sam with a cold stare. After everything, after all the lies and the pain, after the sacrifices Dean had made--he couldn't listen to that. Anything but that. "You don't get to say that," he said. "You have no _right_ to say that. I gave my soul for you, and what you did with it? Was on you. All you, little brother."

Sam listened to him impassively and nodded. "I know," Sam said. "It was all me. Everything I had left, which wasn't enough. Maybe it was never enough and I just never knew it. But what I do know, what I know better than anything, is that the person who died here--the person who bled out and _died_--was the person I wanted to be. The person that was brought back? I never asked for. I _never_ would have asked for."

"You were dead!" Dean screamed. "I held you as you died and I couldn't handle it!"

Sam just smiled. "I think I know the feeling."

It caught Dean off guard until he remembered that he had died, too. He had died bloody and painfully right in front of Sam, with every graphic detail clear for Sam to see.

It was funny how he'd never thought about that. Never thought about what that would do to Sam. How that grief that pushed Dean to the crossroads had done the same to Sam, only he'd been denied the easy out.

Dean's anger was stymied and he gaped at Sam a little, who had turned his attention back to the scene. Dean turned his eyes there as well, watching as Bobby helped Dean pull Sam up and hoist him over Dean's shoulder. Dean saw himself stagger with the weight, face blank and wet, as they made their trek back to the car.

It was Sam who looked away first. "I stayed here," he said. "I couldn't even follow you."

Dean looked at him. "What?"

"I stayed here in Cold Oak. My spirit couldn't leave."

"Your...what?"

"I didn't go to Heaven and I didn't go to Hell," Sam said. "That surprised me."

It was almost too much to hear. To think of his brother dead was hard enough--to think of his brother's spirit? Just did not compute.

"The thing was, I wasn't angry," Sam said. "I wasn't angry at Jake. I wasn't angry at the demon. I was just...gone. And it was okay."

It hurt. That Sam could be _okay_ with Dean being alone. It just wasn't fair. It wasn't _right_. Dean felt his chest tighten and his lips curled into an incredulous snarl. "Well, then, that'd be typical, Sam," he said. "Always thinking about yourself."

Sam's eyes narrowed at that, and Sam's disposition changed. "This is the only time it's ever been good, do you understand?" he asked. "The only time it was, _ever_. There was no more too little, too late. There was no more bad son. There was no more vengeance. It was just over and I couldn't hurt anyone anymore."

"But I _need_ you, Sam."

"No," Sam said, insistently now. "You don't."

"Yeah," Dean said. "I _do_."

"I _know _how this ends," Sam told him. "It's better off this way."

Dean knew how this ended, too. He knew about Hell and he knew about Sam's addiction and he knew about the apocalypse. But, standing there, on the streets of Cold Oak, Dean knew there was no other decision to make. Losing Sam had been losing everything. That failure, that damning, encompassing failure--it would have killed him one way or another. Bringing Sam back--Dean got to die a hero, at least. It didn't make it better, but, somehow, it made it _worth _it.

And there was still a chance to bring Sam back. Not just from the brink of death, but to being his little brother again. They could get over it all--they could get _passed_ it. They just needed to be alive and kicking to make it happen.

"Look," Dean said. "Just because things go wrong, doesn't mean that it's better off with you being dead."

"But if I stay dead, you don't make the deal," Sam explained, with perfect logic. "You don't go to Hell, you don't break the first seal. You don't have to come back to find me sleeping with Ruby and drinking blood. The apocalypse doesn't start--at least not on our watch."

"But I can't handle you _dead_."

"You can't handle me as a junkie either!" Sam snapped back. He sighed, his eyes looking wistful. "Don't you see? I get to die _good_. I get to die _whole_."

"You died with a knife in your back," Dean told him, the memory choking him. "That's not noble."

"But I died as pure as I could," Sam said. "I died on my terms. I made my choice, I chose to let Jake live. I chose it, and these are consequences I can live with. These are consequences that won't haunt me for eternity. _This_ is my only chance for peace. The only chance I'll ever get. Don't take it from me. Please. Don't take it from me."

It was hard to tell his brother no. It always had been.

But this wasn't negotiable. "I could never let you die like this."

"So you'd rather let me live _like that_?"

The compassionate answer was _no_.

But, Dean realized, this wasn't about compassion. This had never been about compassion or what was best for Sam. This had been about _Dean_.

Dean exhaled, his frustrations melting to regret. There was no good outcome to this, he realized. Deals with devils were always too good to be true, but the thought of losing Sam? Even now? After all this time?

Was more than he could take.

After all, he was _here_. Not in Cold Oak, but in Sam's head. Trying to figure out how to bring his comatose brother back to the land of the living.

So he was pretty sure that telling Sam to go toward the light wasn't the right choice--now or then. Not for Dean, anyway.

"Right now, I just want you to live."

"But I'll betray you," Sam reminded him. His face scrunched up and he let out a lone sob before he pulled himself back together. "I'll change. I already have."

It was funny, looking back. How, in the end, it still had to be worth it. "I can fix it."

Sam shook his head. "You can't fix me," he said. "You can bring me back, you can make me live, but nothing can fix me."

"You don't know that."

"And neither do you."

"But I know you," Dean said. No matter what Sam thought or what Sam said, Dean _knew_ Sam.

Sam swallowed. "Yeah? Then who am I, Dean?"

The question again. But here, in Cold Oak, knowing this was the time he had lost Sam for good, he knew why Sam still mattered. After everything. After the lies and betrayal. There was still one thing that didn't change, no matter how much Dean wanted it to. "You're my reason for fighting, Sammy. Without you--there's just nothing, okay? Nothing."

It was all Dean had to offer. His only appeal to bring his brother back. To convince Sam that Dean still needed him, even after everything Sam had done to him.

Sam's expression was torn, though: a mix of understanding, love, and brokenness. "But what is that worth, Dean?" he asked softly.

"I told you," Dean pleaded. "My reason for _fighting_. Without you, I'd roll over and, I don't know. Die?"

"Maybe then," Sam said. "But not now. Not anymore. You have greater purposes than this. I can see it in you. You believe it now. _The Dean_. Meant to save the world. You don't need me."

"But I needed you _then_," Dean reasoned. Because he had. He would have let Hell come without a fight if he'd lost Sam then.

"Your soul would have been at rest," Sam told him. "You could have spared yourself Hell."

"I don't _care_ about Hell," Dean said. "I just cared about _you_."

"You believed that," Sam told him with a slow nod. "You want to believe it now. But you don't. Do you?"

Dean wanted to deny, to tell Sam he was wrong, but the words wouldn't come.

Sam pursed his lips. "Tell me what it's worth again, Dean?"

Dean remembered Hell. He remembered the first seal. He remembered Sam's lies and betrayal and Sam's fall. He remembered that as much as he didn't want to fail, he didn't really want to make this sacrifice. If he'd known then--if he'd know about the torture, about the seals, about _Sam_--

What was that worth?

"It was never my decision," Sam told him softly as he started to fade. "If it was, I never would have left here. But I never had a choice."

Then Sam was gone and Dean was alone on the still and silent streets of Cold Oak. He shook his head. Once, twice, and again and again. "No," he said. "No, no, no, _no_."

He turned, looking for any sign of Sam.

There was nothing.

"Sam!" he called. "Sammy!"

But he was gone.

_Gone__**.**_

The loss was acute and painful and fresh, and, for a moment, Dean didn't care if he was in Sam's head. He didn't care about anything. Just this loss he couldn't handle, the loss that broke him worse than Hell.

But he didn't know who Sam was and he didn't know what that was worth and it was _too much_. Too much Sam and not enough and Dean didn't _know_.

He went to his knees, dropped his head, and the dirt was cold beneath his legs. He remembered this--he remembered this too well. The moment his world ended. The moment of failure that nothing could make right.

He couldn't stop himself from crying.

He cried until the scene faded away and he willed himself with it. He could go back to the panic room, back to the ramshackle cabin. Anywhere but here.

Anywhere but here.

-o-

Fresh air. Daylight.

Dean breathed deep and savored it.

Then he opened his eyes and saw the shimmering waters of the lake. He was perched on a wooden fence and there was a beer in his hand.

Glancing over, Sam was seated not far from him, already mostly through a beer of his own.

"I know you want time, Dean," Sam said. He took a drink and looked out over the water. "But I don't have time."

The secret, Dean realized. This was where he told Sam about Dad's secret.

Sam looked at him, and his eyes are a little cold. "I don't know how you could sit around while I'm supposed to go evil."

"That's not what the secret was about," Dean said.

Sam laughed at that, short and bitter, and took another drink.

"This was why I didn't want to tell you," Dean added.

Sam nodded a little. "Sure," he said. "Thanks for that."

Dean just rolled his eyes. "After all the crap I've stuck by you with, you owe me this one."

Sam looked at him again. "Like you owed me the truth?"

That one was below the belt, and Dean's anger flared reflexively. "It was Dad's last wish."

"I know," Sam said. He gave a small, ironic smile. He took another swig, swallowing hard. "Why he asked me to leave."

"What?"

"Back in the hospital," Sam said. "He told me to go get coffee. He sent me _away_ so he could trust you with his secret. You were right. I was too little, too late, and that just proves it. Even at the very end, when he _knew_ what was going to happen, he didn't want me around. He didn't want to say goodbye. He didn't want to make amends with me. He didn't want anything to do with me. He just wanted me out of the way."

"Oh, come on," Dean said. "His last orders were about protecting you."

"Right," Sam said. "The never ending duty, entrusted only to his precious good son."

"It wasn't like that, Sam," Dean snapped. "Do you think I wanted this?"

Sam's expression sharpened. "You think _I_ wanted this?" he asked back. "Dad knew what he was doing. He knew he was going to die. And he didn't want me there. To think I beat myself up every day that I tried to pick a fight, when it didn't really matter. He didn't want me as a son. He didn't view me as a son. He viewed me as a _burden_. To save and to protect, but not to say goodbye to. Not to _trust_."

"That's not how it was," Dean said.

Sam's smile was wry. "Then tell me how it was. Tell me why he didn't want me to know. Tell me why he asked me to leave. Tell me _who I am_."

There was anger there, that much was true. But there was more than that. There was pain--raw pain. Disappointment and regret and misery. He'd known Sam wasn't okay with their father's death--Hell, the kid had told him as much--but he hadn't quite realized just how hard Sam had taken it. Just how deeply it had hurt.

Dean had just always figured if there was a problem, he'd work it out for both of them. Sam would keep asking him, keeping pushing for answers.

And he had--at first. But the questions had stopped. They'd dwindled and Dean realized that in the months before this incident, Sam had stopped talking about their dad almost altogether.

In fact, for an emo kid, Sam didn't say very much at all.

Which, when had that happened? When had little Sammy stopped asking questions?

Maybe about the time he started getting answers. Maybe about the time those answers became punches and threats.

So this question was one Dean had to answer. One Dean had to answer right.

He licked his lips, leaning in. He rested a hand on his brother's shoulder, eyes steady and voice sure. "You're John Winchester's son," he said.

Sam's snort of incredulity was not as reassuring as Dean might have hoped, but it was hardly a surprise. Nor was the question that followed next. "Yeah? And what is that worth?"

"It's worth staying true to his principles," Dean told him, and that one was still a hard one to admit. Their dad had screwed Dean over good--and it had taken Dean _a lifetime_ to come to terms with that. But, for all of their father's flaws, there was still something true in his commands. To honor family. To fight for each other. That was why Dean was here--that was why Dean kept coming back to Sam, kept saving Sam, even when Sam didn't deserve it.

Sam seemed to consider that, and he sighed a little. He nodded, and took a collected breath. "He believed what was evil should be killed," Sam said. His eyes focused in on Dean, and there was regret and resignation there. "I know why he didn't tell me."

Dean felt himself shaking. That last secret from his father had nearly destroyed everything--had nearly taken Dean's world apart--and it was still hard to talk about. "He wanted to protect you," Dean told Sam, because it had to be true. It _had_ to be. Dean didn't trust his father very much, and he didn't want to honor the old man, but that much was the most truth Dean could make of that order.

Sam shook his head, giving a sad smile. "You don't keep secrets to protect people," Sam told him. "Trust me. I would know."

Dean swallowed hard against that.

"We keep secrets to protect ourselves," Sam said. "And because we don't trust people with what we have to tell them. Dad didn't trust me with that knowledge. Why wouldn't he trust me, Dean?"

Dean's chest ached and he wanted out--_now_. But Sam wouldn't let him out until Sam was ready. He shook his head. "Sam, come on--"

"You know why," Sam persisted. His voice was soft but penetrating. "It's the same reason you kept it a secret."

"I was honoring his last wish, man."

"Because you both thought it was _true_," Sam said. "You thought it was _true_. You both thought I would go evil. You both thought it was inevitable."

"We wanted to save you, Sam."

"Because you didn't think I could save myself," Sam finished for him.

The words were gentle in tone, but heavy in content. Dean's defenses flared, and he shook his head. "You have no idea," he said. "You have no idea what that burden is like."

Sam just blinked at him. "I know," Sam said. "Because no one ever trusted me enough to carry it."

"No," Dean said flatly, and he shook his head. "You asked me to follow through with it. You asked me to kill you, too. You just made the burden worse."

Sam nodded a little, and he looked down. He sighed again, turning his eyes over the lake. "I'm sorry," he said. "I just...if you didn't believe in me--if my big brother who I looked up to my entire life didn't believe in me--I didn't know how to believe in myself. I figured you were right, just like always."

That wasn't what he was expecting. It was honest, though, and made a sudden sense that made Dean's stomach turn. Save or kill. That had been the proposition. There had never been any element of _Sam _in that. Sam was the object; Dean was the one who acted. He'd never thought of it like that: that _protected_ wasn't _safe_. Protected was _powerless_.

Sam asking Dean to fulfill the promise wasn't just about Dean. It was about Sam giving up. Sam resigning himself to his destiny. It was a hard thought--to think that Sam hadn't needed someone to watch out to see if he went evil. He'd just needed someone to tell him he could do it on his own.

Sam looked down. "Too little, too late," he said. He glanced up. "Right, Dean?"

Dean's shoulders sagged. "Sam--"

"You tried hard enough," Sam assured him. "You should have given it up years ago. Dad should have ended it before it got to this point. Would have saved us all the grief."

"Sam, come on--"

Sam just shook his head. "Too little, too late," he said. "I'm a slow learner sometimes, but I get that now. Too little of a brother, of a son. Too late to make amends. I wish I could walk away like you want to, but I don't have that option. Hunting is what you do. You can leave it whenever you want. This evil inside of me--it's who I am. No matter where I go or what I do, it's with me. Always, Dean. Always. You can leave me and I won't blame you. I won't blame you at all."

There had to be something to say, something to make this better. But the answers always turned out wrong, and Dean didn't know how to make this better.

Dean didn't know, and maybe Sam was right. Maybe this was too little, too late. Maybe Dean should walk away and just not come back. He didn't owe his father anything. He didn't actually owe Sam anything.

So why was it so hard to leave? Why was it so hard to leave Sam to himself? This wasn't _his_ mess--

So why did he feel guilty? Why did he feel like he had a hand in it? He'd been right, hadn't he? Sam just couldn't handle the revelation. In the end, Dean had been right about _everything_.

And yet--seeing Sam here, staring out across this lake. To think of his brother reliving these conversation, stuck in these moments. Knowing Sam dwelled on the secrets, no matter how well intended. Knowing Sam believed he was just destined to be evil...

_Who am I, Dean? What is that worth?_

Dean had to find the answer. He had to. And he had to pray it wouldn't be too little, too late.

Then the lake shimmered into the sunset and it faded into light and Dean was gone again.

-o-

The sun was still shining when the world came back. There were clear blue skies and Dean breathed fresh air.

Looking around, the scene was far less inviting.

Gravestones, as far as the eye can see.

The grounds were peaceful and well kept, with manicured lawns and carefully kept trees. Bright flowers decorated the graves, with balloons and flags on a few.

It was a strange sight, really. For all they spent their time in graveyards, they very rarely visited during the daytime.

More than that, they rarely visited them for the purpose they were intended. Winchesters didn't honor the dead with gravestones and yearly vigils.

No, Winchesters honored the dead vengeance and retribution. They didn't just give up a few hours on a weekend afternoon, they gave up _lifetimes_.

And then he saw Sam.

Dean recognized the suit--the cheap Goodwill purchase that had gotten him through the funeral. It was a little short, and Sam's tie was painfully bland, but Dean knew right then, at that moment, his little brother wasn't worried about the suit.

He wasn't even worried about the bouquet of flowers in his hand. He was too focused on the tombstone in front of him.

_Jessica Lee Moore_.

Dean had been here. He'd gone with Sam to the funeral, stood by his brother who hadn't so much as twitched throughout the entire service. He'd even stayed by Sam's side even after everyone else had left and Sam just couldn't move.

But Sam had gone back. The day before they headed out to Colorado, Sam had come back. For what, Dean couldn't be exactly sure, but Sam had asked for some time and privacy to do this, and Dean had obliged, albeit reluctantly. Sam had been all over the map that week--raging with anger and crying himself to sleep--and while Dean didn't think Sam would necessarily do anything stupid, the thought of leaving his little brother unprotected in the graveyard where his dead girlfriend was buried? Sort of hit hard on the big brother worry-meter.

Sam put the flowers down and sighed. He looked out into the sky for a minute, before turning his eyes back to the gravestone in front of him. His face was pinched and sad, but Sam wasn't crying. There had been tears, of course, on and off throughout the week. But Sam was different here. Broken, yes. But resolved.

It was a look Dean knew well. One that had stayed on his father's face for twenty three years. One that Dean had worn while Lucifer walked the earth and Dean's sole task was to get rid of him.

"I was going to marry her," Sam said softly.

It caught Dean off guard. "What?"

Sam glanced at him. "Jessica," he said. "I was going to ask her to marry me. I wanted to settle down with her. Get a job as a lawyer. She was going to be a nurse. She wanted a big family. Lots of kids. I thought I could give that to her."

He'd known Sam had dreams like this. But hearing them come out of Sam's mouth was harder than he'd imagined. To think, all the years he'd resented Sam for wanting these things, all the times he'd thrown these dreams in his brother's face. _You're a selfish bastard_.

Sam had just wanted to be happy. To have a job, a wife, a family. Good things. Precious things. Things Sam would never have.

"You were right," Sam said. He ducked his head and smile a little. "She was out of my league."

"Nah, Sammy," Dean said. "You two were good together."

Sam's smile faded and he swallowed. "She didn't know me."

"Of course she did," Dean said.

Sam just shook his head. "She didn't really know me," he said. "I lied to her about my past. About hunting. I think that's what harder than anything else. Not just that I let her die. But that I might have been able to save her if I'd been honest. That I might have given her a chance to get the Hell away from me if she'd known the truth about me."

Dean felt his teeth clench. "This isn't your fault."

Eyes flaring, Sam shook his head again, more vehemently this time. "She died because of my selfishness," he said. "She died because I wanted to believe I could escape."

"Sam, you can't do this to yourself," Dean said. "Jessica's death was _not _your fault."

Sam gave a humorless laugh. "People die around me," he said. "Mom, Dad, Jessica. Madison, even. _You_. I used to think I was cursed, but now--now, I don't know. I think maybe I _am _the curse."

Dean's stomach roiled. There was such self-loathing, such resignation in that. Because it wasn't just a melodramatic musing. It was what Sam believed.

No wonder Sam didn't think he could go back to this. Dean was afraid his brother would want to go back to normal, but really, Dean should have been afraid that Sam would never look for normal again. "You don't believe that."

Sam's lips quirked into a smile. "No, but I know it," he said. "And I think you do, too."

"I know you're a pain in the ass, but a curse? I don't think so."

"Then how do you explain my blood?" Sam said. "What I do to you in the future? The way I lie and I drink blood and let Lucifer out? I know you've thought it. A _monster_. A _burden_. Your _curse_. All heroes have to be afflicted with them. I'm yours, just like I was Jessica's and Dad's and Mom's."

The hard part was, the part Dean didn't want to admit, was that it was sort of true. More than sort of--Dean _had_ felt that way. The word _curse_ wasn't one that had come to mine--but _burden, chore, duty, responsibility_. Those were terms he'd bemoaned a lot, especially now. Even coming here, getting in Sam's head--it was something he _had_ to do because he was Sam's brother. He hadn't done it because he felt Sam was overly worthy to live or because he really wanted Sam around. Things were easier without Sam most of the time, because Sam was a liar and an addict.

A liar and an addict and a broken man who hated himself.

Dean let that sink in. A man who _hated _himself.

Dean had always valued his family more than himself, had always assumed his own self-worth to be only as good as the person he was serving. But, hating himself? Not so much. Not at all.

This level of self-loathing--so skilled and so practiced and so ingrained--ran deeper than Dean had realized. With roots in Jessica's death, Dean wondered how he hadn't seen it. How he hadn't grasped it before.

He looked at his feet and kicked at the grass. He looked back up at Sam. "I'm sorry."

Sam gave an incredulous snort. "I'm the one who should be sorry."

"I just--I didn't know."

"Didn't know what?" Sam asked.

"That you felt this way."

Sam gave him a look of confused hesitation. "How else am I supposed to feel?"

"That life gave you a bad hand," Dean said. He shrugged. "That life sucks. I don't know. Just not--_this_."

"I knew it by now, though," Sam said. "I knew I was a freak. I knew I was a _monster_. The dreams and visions. Death and destruction. I didn't want to admit it was there, but it was always was. I've always been a monster."

"You're _not _a monster," came Dean's automatic reply.

Sam smiled. "You don't believe that."

"No, but I know it."

Sam pursed his lips, pulling in on himself. He nodded. "Okay," he said. "Then who am I?"

"You're part of the team again, Sammy," he said. "Together we can get through this. Together we can get through anything."

Sam swallowed, as if to buck himself up. He nodded, once, twice, and looked at Dean with parched features. "And what is that worth?"

The question wasn't a surprise by any stretch of the imagination, but it was still hard to answer. Dean sighed. "It has to be worth sticking together," he said. "You and me together, little bro. We can do this."

Sam's smile was sad. "I tried to believe that," he said. "I told myself it was true. I believed it."

Sam looked down, his posture stiff. Dean wanted to say something, to offer him something more, but Sam looked up again, and his eyes were wet.

"I was wrong," he said. "It cost me Jess. It cost me my dreams. And I know it'll cost me everything else in the end."

The thing was--the heartbreaking thing was--Sam was _right_. Dean was so used to lying to Sam, to telling Sam beautiful lies--that he never thought about how hard those lies could crash. How horribly they could fall apart.

"I would change it if I could," Sam said. "Which is why you need to leave. Why you should have left. A long time ago."

And then the scene faded and Dean felt himself going with it until there was nothing of him left.

-o-

Then he was face to face with Sam again.

His black-eyed tour guide. Though the bitch did have the audacity to hide the eyes.

The Sam smiled. "Nice trip?"

"Shut up, jerk off."

"So you're not enjoying it?"

"Going through the dark side of my little brothers memories? Yeah, not so much."

Sam laughed. "Try _living _them."

"How about we try getting out of here."

"Well, that is the end goal," Sam said with a nod. "But really, that's up to you."

"Dude, I'm getting tired of this crap," Dean said, stepping forward. "I'm here to _help_, not wander around in the recesses of Sam's mind."

Sam did not look impressed. "So tell me again, then, what exactly is your definition of help?"

"Find Sam, tell him to wake up, and then get both of us out of here."

Sam nodded, thoughtfully. "So the thought hasn't occurred to you, then."

"What thought?"

"That maybe it's not that easy?"

Dean groaned, turning away. "I have been dragged through enough of this crap. The _who am_ _I _and _what is that worth_." He turned back to Sam with a sense of fury. "I just need him to _wake up_."

"But what about what _we _need."

"You need to dwell in your freakishness a little longer."

Sam's face went hard, his eyes blackening. "The others think we should just make you leave," he said.

Dean was tired of this, tired of Sam and his black eyes and whatever version of Sam this was. He was tired of these games, tired of the up and down and back and forth. He was just trying to help Sam out, and this freaky little trip? Was _so _not what he bargained for. "Yeah?" he asked. "And what do you think?"

"I think you have a lot left to learn."

And before Dean could ask the question, he was reeling again, hard and fast into the dark.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I'm a little behind on replies, but that is part of my afternoon project :) I don't really have much else to say, but that I hope you enjoy!

CHAPTER THREE

_As he begins to raise his voice_

_You lower yours and grant him one last choice_

_Drive until you lose the road_

_Or break with the ones you've followed_

_He will do one of two things_

_He will admit to everything_

_Or he'll say he's just not the same_

_And you'll begin to wonder why you came_

-from "How to Save a Life" by the Fray

-o-

To sunlight.

Bright and glaring, Dean had to squint to try to make sense of it. It took a long moment before scene came into focus. When it did, Dean still didn't know where he was.

The streets were crowded. Young people, maybe college-aged. Kids with backpacks. There was a wide green yard and stately buildings. A bicycle whizzed by him, close enough to make Dean jump.

Pulling himself together, Dean turned his gaze down the sidewalk, searching for any indication of where he was.

Then he saw the sign. _Library._

Looking up, Dean swallowed a little. Stanford. He was at Stanford.

Suddenly, someone brushed him from behind, and Dean turned just in time to see his brother moving past him up the steps.

For a second, all Dean could do was gape. Sam looked so _young_. Tall and lanky; he was donning a jean jacket Dean didn't recognize, a backpack slung over one shoulder. His hair was shorter than Dean remembered, making Sam almost look preppy.

All in all, Sam really did look the part of a Stanford student. There was no sign of Sam's meager upbringing. No indication of the lethal skill and knowledge in his brother's mild-mannered facade.

Dean had always figured that Sam had been _different _at Stanford. He'd gotten a glimpse of it at Sam's apartment on their hunt to find Dad. But seeing it first hand? While it was happening? Was something else entirely.

Sam went inside, and Dean remembered to move. Following quickly, he scaled the steps and went in.

Dean had been in libraries before. But this library? Was pretty damn impressive. No wonder Sam had wanted to go here.

For a second, Dean just stared, a little awestruck at the entire thing. Then he caught sight of his brother, settling into a study table inside.

Moving again, Dean made short work of the distance and settled down across from him. "You're moving awful fast," he said. "What's the rush?"

Sam looked up at him, brow furrowed. "I don't have a lot of time between classes," he said. "And I worked an extra shift last night so I didn't get as much time as I'd have liked to study."

"Oh," Dean said. It made sense, but Dean hadn't thought of it like that. College, in his mind, was supposed to be _fun_. A break he'd never allowed himself to take because he was off doing more serious things.

Sam shook his head, sighing. "I have a quiz in my anthropology class, and I really need to do well to keep my grade up," he explained. "If I don't get the grades, I could lose my scholarship."

"But it's a full ride," Dean said.

 Sam gave a snort. "Achievement based," he said. "And full ride doesn't cover my living expenses."

Again, it made sense, but Dean hadn't thought twice. Full ride had always implied that Sam had it easy these four years. Not that he had to work extra and study harder just to make sure he could do it.

"It's a lot of work," Sam said. "I'm trying to get some upper level stuff in as soon as possible to bolster my chances at a law school interview."

Dean shrugged. "You got a full ride," he said. "They'll give you your interview."

"I got my full ride because I spent every free moment studying. I didn't sleep more than five hours a night my entire senior year. I still don't. I can't afford to ease up now."

"Yeah, but you love this stuff," Dean said. "And you have Jess."

Sam nodded. "I do love it," he said. "And it takes everything I can just to have it at all. The studying, the work, the relationships. It takes every waking moment, every bit of concentration. I can never rest. I can never take it easy."

"Then why do you do it?"

Sam paused, cocking his head and looking at him. "Are you serious?"

Dean just shrugged. "If it's so hard."

"Because it's everything I want," Sam said. "It's everything I ever dreamed of. I don't mind work. I don't mind sacrifices. As long as I believe in the goal."

It made sense. It did. But it was just--weird to hear. Weird to think about. Sam's entire time away was weird to think about. Because it was _Sam_. Dean's little brother. Dean had been there for every moment of his life, and Dean didn't like thinking about Sam existing apart from Dean.

That was why it was hard to let Sam go. That was why it had hurt so much for Sam to leave. Because, as far as Dean was concerned, Sam had always been _his_.

For Sam to be his own person...it was almost hard to believe.

But amazing to see. His brother's strength. His brother's abilities. His brother's tenacity. His brother's happiness.

"Dude, are you just going to stand there?" Sam asked. "You came all this way just to stand there?"

"What do you want me to say?" 

Sam grinned a little, shaking his head. "You could answer the question."

"You didn't ask a question."

Sam sighed a little, looking exasperated. "It's still the same."

"What?"

"Who am I, Dean?"

He'd heard the question several times now, but it still caught him off guard. This was a Sam he didn't know--one he'd never gotten to know. One that had burned up in the fire even though Dean had dragged the rest of him out of it.

And after seeing Sam as an addict. Seeing Sam as a drunk. Seeing Sam as withdrawn and suicidal and depressed. This? This was nothing short of a miracle. "You're freakin' awesome, that's what you are."

Sam looked amused and perplexed all at once. "Okay," he said. "And what is that worth?"

"It's worth going for it," Dean said. He shook his head, smiling. "Man, it's just so hard to imagine that you had all this. That you had a place where you belonged. You got a girl, a permanent address, straight A's. I knew you were good, but I never thought you were that good."

It was high praise, but Sam didn't look flattered. He just looked uncertain. Almost cynical. "Would it still be worthwhile if I hadn't snagged a girl? If I had flunked out of Stanford. If I had just wanted to work a nowhere job at a coffee shop? If I had just wanted to go anyplace and do anything other than hunting? Would it still be worth it then?"

Dean shook his head. "But you never wanted those things."

Sam's smile was rueful. "I never wanted a lot of things," Sam said. "But no one thought to ask me that before."

Dean sighed. "Sam--"

Sam held up a hand, with a small shake of his head. "I don't want to pick a fight with you," he said. "This is the only time when I've seen any value in myself whatsoever. This is the only time I thought any of it was worthwhile. I believed here. I don't want you to take that from me. I know the others have lost it, but I need it. I still need it, okay?"

"Sam--"

"You have to take me as I am," Sam said. "It's not about what I do or what I don't do. It's about the _dream_. It's about _hope_. Without that, I don't know who I am. I just know I don't like it."

"Sam--"

"Until you can accept that, I think you have to leave."

"What?" Dean asked. "Sam, come on--"

"Do you understand it yet?"

"Understand _what_?" Dean asked. "I just need us to get out. _Together_."

"But maybe I need to stay," Sam said, shaking his head. "I need you to see that."

"We need to go, Sam," Dean said. "This isn't _real_. You're in a hospital--"

Sam just shook his head. "Reality is only what you make it out to be."

"Sam--"

"Goodbye, Dean," Sam said.

And then it was gone again before Dean could stop it.

-o-

This place was familiar. Nondescript and dingy. There was a flashing neon light that said Pit Stop Motel.

Memory flashed.

It couldn't be.

Dean heard a door slam behind him, with the frantic sound of someone moving around.

He had stayed in a hundred crappy motels, but this was one he'd always remember. The motel that changed everything. The last motel Sam stayed at before he left.

This was the night Sam came clean about Stanford. The night Sam had had the blowout with their father, the night when their dad had said _don't come back_ and the night Sam had finally obeyed.

This one hurt--more than the others. Seeing Sam hurting, seeing Sam broken--it was hard to take, no doubt. It was confusing and insightful and downright _weird_.

But this one? Wasn't just Sam's memory. It was his, too. Because when Sam had walked out, it had been Dean who was left behind.

He closed his eyes. "Come on, come on," he muttered. "We've got nothing to learn here."

Opening his eyes again, the scene was still the same. He could hear Sam in bedroom, throwing his stuff together, and Dean knew what he was doing. He was packing.

Dean sighed. If he was going to get out of here, he had to talk to Sam.

He moved tentatively, knowing what he'd find. Sam's door opened easily, but in his rage, Sam didn't even turn to see Dean enter.

Sam was moving fast and hard, stuffing things into his duffel with uncharacteristic ferocity. Books and clothes, haphazardly strewn today, even bending the precious pages Sam worked so hard to keep straight.

Sam looked so young--thin and wiry, and Dean remembered those days well. Sam was still growing into himself. He was strong, lean and muscular, but without the impressive bulk that Sam carried as an adult. And his face was thin, with a boyishness about it that made Dean ache.

Sam's face was red, eyelashes clumped together with the tip of his nose agitated.

Dean remembered standing here. Remembered watching Sam do this exact same thing. Remembered watching and having his heart break.

"So you've come to yell at me, too, huh?" Sam asked without turning around. He jammed a copy of _Watership Down_ into his backpack.

"What?" Dean asked.

Sam glanced at him, face drawn stiffly. "You going to tell me what an asshole I am? How I should buckle down? Listen to Dad? Roll over and hope he forgives me?"

There was a bitterness there that Dean also recognized--one that he'd chided Sam for, but had taken to himself recently. Their father's orders were harsh and blind, and Dean couldn't say that he valued following them much anymore.

But this wasn't about Dad. This was about Dean. This was about Dean and Sam and about how when the line was drawn in the sand, Dean had always picked Sam.

Sam had always picked himself.

"You think I care about Dad?" Dean asked finally.

Sam snorted, pulling a pile of boxers from his drawer. "You're always telling me to buck up and follow his damn orders."

"And you're always telling him to go to Hell," Dean mused softly.

"Not like he listens."

"Oh, and you do?" Dean asked, and he couldn't help the sardonic humor in his tone.

Sam paused for a second, looking at him. "I listen," he said. He turned back to his packing. "I listened for eight years and all I heard were lies."

That one stung. Harsh and brutal--and true. "We were trying to protect you."

"So that makes it okay?"

"So it gives you license to a jackass?"

Sam spun on him again. "So you do think I'm an asshole."

Dean shrugged. "You said it, man," he said. "Not me."

Sam nodded, keeping his face tightly composed. "Did you ever think about it from my point of view?"

Dean was used to Sam's questions, both in real life and in the constant shift of devolving Sam's he seemed to be meeting. But this one? Was a little out of left field. "What?"

"My point of view," Sam said again. "Like, what I'm feeling here."

The honest answer? No. Dean hadn't thought about it. Sure, he'd figured Sam was angry and probably a little hurt, but that didn't explain why Sam had thought he needed to leave--to cut all ties and just _go_.

"Because this _sucks_, Dean," Sam told him. "It sucks. All I wanted was a chance. To do something for myself. It's all I ever wanted. And what did he do? He kicked me out."

"You could have told him sooner," Dean said, and the old arguments were coming back. The ones he played in his head during those long years while Sam was at college. "You shouldn't have lied to him."

"Like he lied to me?" Sam asked, incredulous.

"You could have tried talking to him," Dean insisted. "He listens."

"To you, Dean," Sam told him plainly. "He listens to you."

"Because I follow orders."

"I just want to know why we're doing things."

"And he just wants to keep you safe!" Dean exploded. "We're better off as a family." And Dean still believed it. He had to believe it. If they had stuck together, if they had just lived up to their promises to one another, none of this would have happened. They could have been happy and whole.

"This isn't a family, Dean!" Sam yelled back. "And it's not even about being equal or being trusted or whatever. It's about the fact that I'm not happy, Dean. About the fact that every day I come home from school and I have to find reasons to not kill myself. Every hunt we go on, I have to talk myself out of just letting myself get killed. This lifestyle--it is taking everything good in me and _ruining _it. Do you know what that's like? Do you know what it's like to wish you were anywhere but here?"

Dean wanted to say he did. The months after Hell were full of it. His disdain for himself. The discomfort in his own skin. The way the hunt was a distraction he could never quite get into it. All he wanted was out.

But not to find himself. To run from himself. Dean realized the difference with sudden clarity. Dean wanted a break because hunting made him feel too real. Hunting was a part of who he was and Dean didn't like facing himself.

Sam wanted out because the hunt didn't let Sam be a person, and for all that made him safer, it also made him a hardened shell. It made him miserable.

It was the missing piece of the puzzle. The part of Sam he never quite got. That it wasn't defiance for the sheer spite of it. That it was self preservation in the highest. Sam was just trying to hold on when he went to Stanford, just like he was grasping at straws for revenge after Jessica died. Just like he'd turned to Ruby after Dean's death. Desperation forced men to do funny things. Sam didn't know how to break; he just knew how to find a new vice to submit to.

Dean sighed, looking at Sam--really seeing his brother. The eighteen year old kid. He had nothing more than two bags to his name. When his family wouldn't give him any value of his own, Sam applied to colleges who would do it for him. All Sam had was a letter and an ultimatum. One made him feel valued, the other made him feel worthless.

It was no wonder which one Sam took.

Dean swallowed hard, pushing back his own pain. He'd dwelled on it enough. He'd held it against Sam for years. It was time to let go--here and now, it was time to open up. "I'm sorry," he said.

Sam stilled, head cocking. "You're sorry?"

"That you think you have to do this," he said. "That's just...you shouldn't have to think that way."

"You're telling me I'm wrong, then?" Sam asked, hesitant.

"No," Dean said. "I just--wish it was different."

"But it's not," Sam finished for him.

"It could be," Dean offered.

"And how's that?" Sam asked. "Dad going to let me go to college? You're going to be cool with me being away? I'm going to have a chance to be _myself_?"

"I've only wanted you," Dean said. "I've known you since before you were born. I know you better than you know yourself. You don't need to be anyone else around me."

Sam gave him a slight half smile. "And who am I, Dean?"

It was the question Dean should have seen coming. The answer fluttered in his throat, and it was important to say it just right, so Sam knew. "You're still a Winchester. No matter what you think, no matter what Dad said."

Sam nodded tightly, looking down. "Then tell me, Dean," he said, looking up again, a hint of defiance in his eyes. "What is that worth?"

Dean felt himself bristle at the defiance, which was easy to do. Sam was young and full of fire--there were things he wanted and things he refused to compromise on, whether or not it was right or wrong. Sam was short-sighted in so many things, and just plain _wrong _in others. But there was something more than that. Something hopeful, something _needy_ in it all. Where Dean had seen selfish before, now he could see a kid who didn't just want it for kicks, but who _needed _it like he needed air.

It was a hard revelation, one he didn't want to deal with. Sam leaving had hurt him--a lot. But maybe it wasn't about Dean. Maybe it was about Sam.

"It's worth not burning your bridges," Dean told him. "You might regret it someday."

Sam gave a brief laugh. "Regret? You mean like I regret telling Dad about Stanford at all? Or how I regret every single hunt I've ever been on. Or how I really regret the first eight years of my life that were all _lies_?" he said. He shook his head, his countenance barely held together. "I don't have a choice. I need a chance, Dean. A chance to breathe. I was suffocating here. It isn't about leaving you guys. It's about being able to _live_. I wanted both. I only get one."

It cut deep--deeper than Dean had thought it would. "And you need to go more than you need to stay?" Dean asked.

"If I stay for you," Sam said. "I'll be dead. This life--this endless hunt, these lies and this training and this endless pursuit of _evil_--I can be a Winchester. Or I can be happy. But Dad made it pretty clear. I can't have both."

And what Dean could see now was a desperation he'd never quite grasped before. The inherent need, burning deep inside Sam. The last smoldering hope in his brother's soul.

It was why Sam at Stanford at been so different. Had been so _happy_.

It was why seeing Sam after Jess' death was so painful. It was why the Sam lying in the hospital bed was nothing more than a shell.

Dean had seen his brother without hope; seeing him with it, as angry and desperate as it was, wasn't something he could deny.

And yet, what hope could he let the kid hang onto? On the cusp of his dreams, Dean knew Sam was going to lose everything. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

Sam nodded. "That's what I thought," he said.

Dean watched as his brother took a deep breath, consciously forcing himself to let it out. Pulling his duffel bag over his shoulder he gave Dean one last look. "Aren't you going to say it, too?"

Dean's throat was tight, his eyes burning. "Say what?" Dean asked.

"The ultimatum. I know you believe it. I know you give it to me later. Maybe if you said it now, you could spare yourself the trouble."

Dean remembered the ultimatum. He'd issued it from the shattered honeymoon sweet, from the floor where Sam had tried to kill him.

He'd meant it. He'd wanted to mean it.

But the thing was, Sam had been right about some of it. Maybe Dean hadn't known him. Because Dean hadn't known this. He hadn't known how much it hurt Sam to go. He hadn't known how desperate Sam had been to get out. He hadn't known that maybe there really were two sides to every story, and whether Sam was an addict or a liar or a teenage kid just looking for a chance, maybe Sam still deserved that chance.

Sam pressed his lips together. He nodded. "Okay," he said, and he started walking, brushing past Dean. The door opened and there was a pause. Dean closed his eyes and hoped and prayed that maybe Sam could come back. That maybe they could still fix this.

The door shut.

Sam was gone.

The tension left Dean's body as the failure settled over him again. He had no words to save Sam here. Sometimes, it was easier not to try.

His futility dissipated and the scenery melted away and Dean welcomed the blackness once again.

-o-

Dean kind of liked motel rooms.

He kind of hated schools.

Which was why he couldn't forget them.

It was sunny out, and somewhere a bell rang. The front doors opened and kids began coming out. One after another, in groups and pairs, walking and laughing, walking and jogging.

Squinting up, Dean saw the sigh. _Truman High School_.

Dean muttered a curse. Just what he needed. Another stellar memory.

There were kids everywhere, but no sign of Sam. Which was not ideal since Sam was the only one he wanted to talk to. He hadn't wanted to be a part of this school when he'd been there; considering this was nothing more than a whacked out memory in Sam's comatose brain, he had even less desire to hang around this time around.

The crowds began to clear as the students trickled home. Dean saw a few teachers begin to leave, and decided if Sam wasn't going to make himself apparent, he was going to have to go on a bit of a search.

He tried inside first--roaming for what he had thought was once Sam's locker. He tried the boys' bathroom on each floor and even checked in a few classrooms that look vaguely familiar.

Coming up blank, he went outside again, wandering around to the back where the football practice field was.

It was early spring, though, and the fields were empty. Except for a small lone figure, perched in the bleachers.

Sam.

Fourteen and geeky, his little brother was unmistakable. It was almost hard to see him like that--young and innocent and _small_. It was hard to really remember a time when Sammy was actually smaller than he was, and Dean's heart panged fondly.

He made his way over. Sam saw him, but didn't say anything. There was something melancholy about this, though Dean couldn't quite place what. Dean knew his own experiences here weren't so positive, but he had thought it'd ended up okay for Sam. Some bullying, but Sam was smart and strong--so it wouldn't have been a problem.

Sam was just sulky at this age, Dean recalled, and frustratingly so, but maybe he'd at least figure out why.

Dean stuffed his hands in his pockets and rolled his shoulders. The air was cool, a little crisp, and Dean took a deep breath and had to remind himself it wasn't real. "What are you doing out here?"

Sam shrugged, looking off into the distance. "Just waiting."

With a glance around, Dean pulled his jacket tighter around himself. "For what?"

"You. Dad." Sam shrugged. "I'm not supposed to go home by myself. Right?"

That was right. There had been lots of restrictions as far as Sam was concerned. No leaving the motel room by himself. No talking to strangers. No walking home alone. It was just par for the course. They weren't worried about muggers or murderers, but there were plenty of other things out there, and Sam was the youngest--had always been the youngest--and Winchesters didn't abide by vulnerabilities.

"Well, I'm here now," Dean pointed out.

Sam nodded a little. "Dad should be home soon, right?"

Dean remembered this. Remembered his father's black eye and the trail of a black dog in Mississippi that would take them to the south for the next few months. "And then we can blow this joint," Dean assured him.

Sam's shoulders sagged a little, and Dean remembered belatedly that that wasn't something Sam had wanted.

But that never made sense to Dean. There wasn't anything to stay for. A school full of kids who didn't like them. A town full of people who didn't know them. Pretty girls were a dime a dozen, and Dean had never wanted anything except his family.

"And we have to start over," Sam said.

"That's a good thing," Dean told him. "I'm sure there are geeks at the next school, too, so you'll have no problem picking up where you left off."

Sam didn't look amused. He just looked sad.

"Dude, seriously," Dean prodded. "What is with you?"

Sam sighed and looked at him. "Don't you ever just want _more_?"

"More than this?" Dean said with a light voice. He thought about his teenage years--the lonely days in class, the draw of the hunt at night, and the nameless girls in between. And always Dad and Sam. "What more could you want."

"My teacher, Mr. Wyatt," Sam said. "He thinks I can go to college."

Dean froze. It had always been a mystery--how Sam had dreamed of college at all. It had never really been presented as an option. It hadn't even been a notion Dean had entertained. Dean had always figured Sam had picked the thing most likely to piss their father off, but maybe he was wrong.

About a lot of things.

"Yeah?" Dean said. "You are pretty smart."

Sam nodded a little. "He asked me what I wanted," Sam continued softly. He looked up. "I didn't know what to say."

"You're fourteen, Sam," Dean told him. "You're not supposed to know what you want."

Sam shook his head. "That's not it," he said. "It's just...no one has ever asked me that before."

Dean scoffed. "I ask you that all the time," he said.

"I mean about life."

"Spaghettios or mac and cheese is a pretty important life decision."

Sam didn't crack a smile. "It's always one hunt after another," Sam said. "We go somewhere, stay a few months, move on. It's endless. Training, hunting, moving. There's nothing to it. There's nothing to look forward to."

"We get to kill things," Dean protested. "Save people."

"People I don't know from things I don't _want _to know."

"Ignorance isn't bliss, Sammy."

"I don't want ignorance," Sam told him. "I just want to be happy. I want to be _safe_. There's nothing happy and safe in my life and I feel like if I don't get out of it, I'll just _die_."

"Dude, melodramatic much?" Dean tried to quip.

"But Dean, I don't _like _hunting," Sam told him plaintively, and it was an odd thing to see Sam so honest and upfront. It had been something so characteristic of Sam at this age. "I just--I feel like it's killing me."

"Dad wouldn't let anything happen to you."

"Not like that," Sam told him. He leaned forward, his brow creasing. "But--like _inside_. _Me_. I feel like it's killing me inside."

It was a hard thing to think about. That Dean's horse and cart were well and good, except they weren't anything that Sam wanted. Sam didn't care if the horse was pulling the cart at all because he wanted something else entirely.

Dean had called it selfish most of his life, but looking at the kid--looking at fourteen year old Sam and seeing how _miserable _he was--was a stark revelation.

This is what Sam had talked about at eighteen. This was what he'd been trying to avoid. This was a Sam with no hope for a future. A Sam who didn't know what happiness and stability and safety was. This was a Sam who didn't know who to trust or how to believe because his whole life was short-term commitments and lies.

Sam sighed, seemed to shrink a little. "I keep going around with it in my head. What I want, where I'm going. And I keep having this question, Dean. This question in my head."

Dean knew the question. He had heard it before. And yet, he had to let Sam ask it. He swallowed. "And what question is that, Sammy?" he asked, his voice forced.

"Who am I?"

It came easily. The banter of their youth. His cocky arrogance and Sam's introverted logic. "You're the geekboy." And the name was light on his tongue, like it was meant to be.

Sam looked disappointed. "And what is that worth?"

"It's worth sticking around," Dean told him. "Worth getting up in the morning, worth sticking with us."

Sam tried to smile. "You really think so?"

"Sure," Dean said. "I've got your back. You put your nose to the grindstone a little more and Dad will ease up. It could be awesome."

It was a fantasy Dean believed in--had believed in all his life. He'd always liked his brother, but his frustrations with the kid had been nothing more than the fact that Dean had known, without a doubt, what they _could _have had together. If Sam could just get himself with it and follow the program. Freedom only came after responsibility. Sam wanted the cart before the horse, and Dean knew it didn't work that way.

"I wish it could be awesome," Sam told him finally. He looked pensive. "I just--I don't know."

"What's to know?" Dean said. "I know hunting's not always the best, but people need us, man. They need us--they're _always _going to need us. I just--I haven't figure out a way around that. I can't find anything else worth leaving for."

Sam's eyes went distant again, and he gave a sigh that was too big for his small frame. "I wish that were enough."

"Sometimes it has to be."

Sam looked at him again. "Do you believe that? Even when everything goes wrong, do you still believe that?"

Dean had to believe it. Even when he wanted to leave, there was no place else to go. No other satisfaction to find. He could make things right by hunting things. He could redeem himself. It was what he was good at, what he knew, who he _was_, even if he didn't always want to admit it.

He collected himself and nodded. "I do."

Sam's lips quirked into a smile. "You're lucky," he said. "It's what I've always envied most."

"My dashing good looks?" Dean quipped.

"That you find meaning in what you do."

Dean's humor faded. "You can, too."

Sam just shook his head. He looked at his hands. "I'm not happy, Dean," he said. "I'm not safe. It's been so long that sometimes I forgot what it feels like--to be really safe, to be actually _happy_. I know you try, but it's not something sneaking into a movie or shoplifting a candy bar can fix. It's about how it takes me an hour to fall asleep each night while I try to remember the incantations to keep ghosts away. It's about how the first thing I do when I wake up is check to make sure the gun is still under my pillow. It's about how I get up each morning and wish I just didn't have to. I'm trapped like this, and sometimes I think the worst fate I could have is living long enough to be numb to this."

There wasn't anything to say. Sam's words were heavy and morose and undeniable. It wasn't like Dean had thought the kid was happy, but he'd never really thought of Sam as depressed either. But looking at him, the weary lines on such a young face, Dean wondered if he'd missed it all along. If he'd been so wrapped up in his own dreams and desires and duties that he'd forgotten that Sam was a person underneath it all.

"Sam," he breathed. "I'm sorry."

But it wasn't enough. Sam smiled wanly and didn't reply.

If he had understood back then, Dean wasn't sure what it would have changed. If he would have mocked the kid less, stood up for him with Dad a little more. Maybe it would have hurt Dean less when Sam finally did leave for Stanford if he'd understood just where that need came from.

It wasn't that it wasn't selfish, because it kind of was. But only in the way that self preservation was always selfish at its most inherent level.

"Sometimes I feel like I could just fade away," Sam continued after a long pause. His little brother closed his eyes. "Sometimes I wish I just would."

Dean wanted to say something--anything--but the words weren't there. Nothing was there and Dean let his own eyes close until he faded, too, and the scene dwindled into nothingness.

-o-

Another motel room. Bland and faded. Adorned with Christmas lights.

And eight year old Sam seated on his bed with stretch pants that didn't fit.

This was the night Sam found out, Dean realized, his stomach sinking. The night Sam knew the truth.

Sam's eyes were wet and his shoulders are hunched as he sat on the bed.

"I didn't mean to make you mad," Sam told him, sniffling a little.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"About Mom," Sam said. "And about...everything. I know that's why you left."

Then Dean remembered. Sam had been asking his questions, and Dean had stormed out. Sometimes the kid was just more than he could take--Dean had been young himself and he wasn't Sam's father. He loved his kid brother, but he didn't know what he was supposed to say. What he was supposed to do. Coming up with answers to all of it was an impossible task--sometimes it was easier just to run.

"Sometimes I just want to know," Sam continued.

Dean sighed, and sat heavily on the bed. "You think you do," he said. "But trust me. You don't."

"But how can I trust you if you don't tell me the truth?" Sam said. "I _know_ you're hiding stuff."

Dean felt his defenses flare. "What am I hiding?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "If I knew that, I wouldn't have to ask."

"But how do you know?" Dean persisted. He had worked hard to provide a status quo for Sam, to give Sam the normal Dean himself had been denied.

"The moving. The aliases. We live in _motel_ rooms, Dean," Sam said plainly. "I figured out it wasn't normal within a month of starting kindergarten."

It was kind of a letdown. To think that Sam had lost his normal far earlier than Dean had intended. To think maybe Sam had never had it at all. "It's to keep you safe," Dean told him, his voice tight.

"But how can I be safe if I don't know the truth?"

"I'm here," Dean said. "So's Dad. What more do you need?"

"Answers," Sam said, and he looked earnest and more than a little desperate. "I just want answers. I can't handle all these questions."

"Then stop asking," Dean said, harsher than he intended. "Maybe they don't all have answers."

"Every question has an answer, Dean," Sam said. "Some people think that there are infinite right answers, which is kind of reassuring and true, sometimes. But I don't believe it. Not always."

"What do you mean?"

Sam's brow darkened and he cocked his head uncertainly. "It just seems like sometimes there's just one answer. One thing that has to be known. One truth. That's what I've been trying to find all these years. I just never thought that I wouldn't want it when I found it."

Dean felt his heart twinge. He tried to smile. "It's not so bad," Dean said.

Sam didn't manage to smile back. "I think maybe it is," he said.

"Dude, come on," Dean said, patting Sam on the shoulder. "You get to play with guns."

The kid's eyes were huge, more penetrating than Dean remembered. "Is that all there is?" he asked.

"What more do you want?"

The second Dean asked the question, he knew it was the wrong thing to ask. Sam's eyes widened and his face went alive with an intensity Dean recognized.

"I want to stay in the same place," Sam said. "I want Dad around. Maybe he could come to my soccer games. Maybe you could join a baseball team. And Dad could get a job. And we could be a family, like you used to be, before I was born."

"Hey!" Dean said harshly. "We're a family now."

Sam's face went tight. "But you were a better family then," he said. He paused, his eyes focused on Dean. "Weren't you?"

Dean swallowed hard, feeling his heart begin to race.

Sam didn't let him speak. "You don't have to say it, Dean," he said. "I know. Just like I knew about hunting. I know about how you really feel about me. You protect me because that gives you purpose. We all need purpose. And I think that's great. I just wish it didn't have to be this way. I mean, it's not your fault that you're stuck with me."

"Dude, I'm not stuck with you."

Sam turned his head, pursing his lips slightly in thought. "But aren't you? Dad put me in your arms. You didn't have a choice about that. Do you sometimes think about what it would have been like if you'd never come for me?"

Licking his lips, Dean shook his head. "No, never," he said.

"It's okay," Sam said. "I understand. I understand why you had to lie to me all those years."

"To keep you safe," Dean told him harshly. "We wanted to keep you safe and happy."

"But I'm in a motel room," Sam said. "And there are monsters I know nothing about. How can I be safe? And how can I be happy when no one has ever wanted me?"

"We have always wanted you."

"Then why didn't you tell me, Dean?" Sam asked and his eyes were huge now. "Why didn't you tell me truth?"

"I just wanted to protect you!" Dean snapped, and he pushed to his feet, pacing back and forth. He looked back at his brother, who was watching him impassively. "I just wanted to let you be a kid."

"And I just wanted to be a part of this family," Sam said. "Or I thought I did. Now I just want to be safe. I always wanted to be safe. It doesn't feel safe here, Dean. These motels never feel safe. Mom wasn't safe. Dad's not safe. And you're not safe. I know I'm not supposed to know that, but the other one told me."

Dean stopped. "The other one?"

"The one with black eyes. He knows the truth. He told me that demons take Dad. They take you, too. And that I'd be better off if I just let them take me and spare us all the trouble."

It was so wrong to hear, to watch his eight-year-old brother talk about things so far beyond his years. Dean had wanted to protect Sam from this, protect Sam from all of this. He had to do his job, he had to make it right. He couldn't lie to the kid, because Sam had always known. Maybe he hadn't known the truth, but he'd recognized the lie when it was in being forced down his throat from the day he was six months old.

Stepping closer, he sat down next to Sam, looking at him intently. "You listen to me," Dean said. "A lot of stuff happens in life, okay? Bad things. But that's why we do this. That's why we always do this. To stop it. That's why we have to fight harder."

Sam seemed to consider that. "How can I believe you?"

"I'm your brother," Dean said.

"You lied to me before," Sam said. "My entire life is a lie. What makes this any different?"

Dean sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. "It just--is, Sam. Okay? You have to trust me. I'm your brother."

When he opened his eyes again, Sam was looking at him, looking into him. "I know who you are," he said. "But who am I, Dean?"

He should have been expecting it, but he hadn't yet. Not in this stream of conversation. There was so much he wanted to tell Sam, so much he wanted to say to make this better. He wanted to take that look of betrayal off Sam's face and give him a reason to believe again. He wanted to think that Sam wouldn't have to lose it altogether. That he could save this kid, and save them all.

But how? Lying hadn't worked. He could see that now. He could feel Sam's doubt, so reflexive, bubbling from the very essence of who Sam was. Dean had never grasped that, not really. He knew well enough what it was like to be lied to--the last year with Sam had been a hard lesson in that. But he hadn't thought about the lies he'd told Sam. The lies about the angels, about how much Dean knew. The lies about his father's last words. The lies about hunting. For eight years, Sam's life was built on a shoddy version of the truth. When it was exposed for what it was, it destroyed what little semblance of stability Sam had. Discovering Sam's deception over the last year had made Dean question his brother's very place in this family.

What impact had it had for Sam?

No wonder Sam had always wanted to know why. No wonder he'd never taken his father on blind faith. The man had never deserved it. Neither had Dean, and suddenly he realized how lucky he was that he had gotten it at all.

The truth, then. He had to tell Sam the truth.

"You're a hunter, Sammy," he said finally.

His little brother looked pensive, face scrunched up with the crease between his eyes. "And what is that worth?"

"It's worth this life," Dean said. "I know sometimes it doesn't seem like it. Hell, sometimes _I'm_ not so sure about it, but it's all we have. And it's enough."

Sam nodded, seeming to consider it. "And what if it's not?"

Dean pulled himself together, keeping himself impassive as best he could. "You're just going to have to believe me on that one."

"It's always been easier to believe you," Sam said. "Your lies are so much better than Dad's. Even when they're just as false, I like them better. Sometimes I think it's enough."

Sam looked down, his shoulders slumping. He looked back up and met Dean's eyes, and Dean felt his heart breaking just a little more.

Sam sighed, shrugging a little. "It never is."

Dean just closed his eyes, and he knew his failure here. The same mistake he made then, the same well-intentioned lies--and it wasn't enough for Sam. It was never enough for Sam. And, for the first time, Dean wondered if the tragedy was that he actually had expected it to work.

He kept his eyes closed, breathed in and out, and waited for the scene to go black.

-o-

The next thing he heard: Thundercats.

Thundercats? What was this? 1989?

Opening his eyes, Dean found himself in a ramshackle motel room. The tacky decor was painfully out of date and even worse for wear. Their personal belongings were sparse, but Dean could see his own stack of frayed comic books on the table and a handful of plastic action figures on the coffee table.

The small TV was playing Thundercats, but half the action was missing due to a blip in the reception. The color was faded funny, making it hard to tell what was really going on, but his brother didn't seem to care.

Curled up in the chair, Sammy looked positively tiny. His baby features and curly mop of hair were so freakin' adorable that Dean was glad that he'd been too young to really appreciate it at the time. If he had? Sam would have gotten everything he wanted, and then some. Because the damn kid was practically a muppet, all eyes and limbs.

Then Sam laughed at the program and Dean ached. Laughter. When was the last time Sam had _laughed_? When was the last time Sam had even smiled? A real, honest _smile_?

The fact that Dean didn't know suddenly seemed very, very wrong.

"You can watch, too, you know," Sam said suddenly, looking up at him.

Dean hesitated. "Oh." He drew his brows together and shifted uncertainly. He forced a smile and sat down on the couch, which creaked beneath him. "Right."

"You say this show is good," Sam said, looking back at it.

"Dude, it's _awesome_," Dean told him.

Sam nodded enthusiastically. "It totally is," he agreed.

The lapsed into silence, the sound of the cartoon filling the room. But Dean couldn't watch the cartoon. He could only watch Sam.

His little brother.

To think, all these years ago, this was _Sam_. Pure and innocent and sweet. The little brother he'd sworn to protect. This was the brother he'd gone to Hell for.

This couldn't be the brother who had betrayed him--not the one who drank demon blood and lied and let Lucifer loose. Maybe Dean had been right--maybe his brother had changed. Maybe his black-eyed tour guide had taken all this over, subjugated it, and had taken this Sam away from him.

Sam blinked up at him and looked concerned. "You're not watching," he said. "We can watch something else. Or you could go play video games. You don't have to sneak out. I won't tell Dad."

"Dude, you know about that?"

Sam nodded, all too earnest. "I hear the keys in the lock when you leave," he said. "Once I watched where you went. Maybe someday, when I'm bigger, I could go with you."

"It's too dangerous," Dean said without thinking.

A little crestfallen, Sam nodded. "Oh," he said. "Yeah, that's okay."

"Besides," Dean interjected quickly. "Who needs video games when you have Thundercats?"

Sam nodded again, and looked back at the screen. His amiable silence only lasted a moment before he looked at Dean again. "Why is it safe for you to go out but not me?"

"I'm bigger."

It wasn't going to be enough to satisfy Sam. "But what about when I'm bigger?"

Dean almost laughed. The questions. The endless rounds of questions and counter-arguments. Give Sam a reason and he'll find a reason why not. And yet, Dean couldn't stop himself from playing along. "You'll never be bigger than me."

That seemed to alarm Sam. "So I'll never get to do what you do?"

"Well, maybe," Dean relented. "But you'll have to trust me to let you know when it's okay."

That was the thing, in the end. Sam just needed to trust him. If Sam had trusted him all along, they wouldn't be here at all. Sam wouldn't have gone darkside. He wouldn't have started the Apocalypse and life would be so much easier. It was hard to think how easily Dean could have changed it if he'd only convinced Sam that he was _right_. Maybe not about everything, but about the big things--the things that made a difference.

But even at age five, in the throes of hero worship, Sam was a hard sell. "And you'd never lie to me?"

The lie was perched on Dean's tongue but it was too hard to give. Not when Sam was looking at him like that. He smiled a little instead. "I'm always going to do right by you."

"What does that mean?"

"That everything I do, I do it to take care of you."

"Even when you go to play video games?"

Dean shrugged a little. "Well--"

"Even big brothers should have fun," Sam told him earnestly. "You make me dinner and you tell me when to go to bed. You're super smart."

Dean found himself grinning. That was always good to hear. He'd forgotten how much he relished Sam's hero worship. For all the work and all the responsibility, it was hard to think of it as a burden when Sam gave him complete adoration and love.

Those were the days.

"You're not so bad yourself there, kiddo," Dean said, ruffling Sam's hair lightly.

Sam grinned up at him, beaming. "Thanks, Dean," he said. "It's good to have someone to count on."

"That's what I'm here for," Dean assured him.

"So I can ask you questions, and you'll know the answers?"

"Just like a textbook."

"And you'll tell me what I need to know?"

"Without fail."

"Can I ask you a question now, Dean?"

"Sure, buddy," Dean said.

"Who am I?" Sam asked, blinking his eyes up at him.

Dean's heart skipped a beat. He'd walked right into that one. Sam had set him up, nice and slow. He'd forgotten that, with all of Sam's hero worship, the kid had been clever and inquisitive at heart--and he knew how to work it.

That question. It always came back to that question. And there was one thing Dean knew now better than ever--one thing that this Sam made abundantly clear just by the sheer virtue of who he was. "You're Sammy."

"What is that worth?"

It was such a simple question, and his brother looked so earnest about it. And Dean had only one answer to give, and he could only pray that it'd be enough. "It's worth sticking with me, okay?" Dean said. "I would never lead you wrong."

"Oh," Sam said. "Okay."

Dean's heart stilled for a moment, the buds of hope blossoming. After all of this--could this be the right answer? "Okay?"

Sam nodded as a matter of fact. "I just have one more question."

Dean grinned. "Shoot, kiddo."

Sam's face went very serious. "Am I still Sammy when my eyes go black?" he asked.

Dean's throat constricted. "What?"

"When my eyes go black," Sam said. "I've talked to the others. And they all give me their own answers. But you're my big brother and you would _never _lie to me, right, Dean?"

Dean could hardly think--he could hardly _breathe_.

"Unless you were lying when you told me that," Sam said, his head cocking a little in thought. "Then I guess everything might be a lie. But then how do I know what's true if it all started with a lie?"

Dean wanted to say it wasn't true. He wanted to tell Sam it wasn't like that. But it _was_ like that. Sam's entire life was based on lies. On their father lies, his mother's lies, his own. How could Sam ever know what to trust when his foundations were so uncertain?

How could he expect Sam to trust when he'd lied to him from the beginning? Love and safety and protection. Hate and distrust and deception. It was all the same, in the end. Way back at the beginning, he couldn't make it better for Sam because it had been wrong before Sam was even born.

Sam looked at him, his face as young as it had ever been. Inquisitive. Hopeful. Innocent. What Dean wanted to remember.

What might have never been true.

Sam smiled at him, and laughed a little. "This is what you thought was real, isn't it?" he asked. "The good little brother who trusts and follows. Only that's not what I am, and you know that, too. This is what I am."

And Sam's eyes went black, and Dean couldn't stop it. He couldn't stop it and there was nothing he could do. He couldn't cry and he couldn't scream and he couldn't save his brother.

The blackness expanded, encompassing Sam's face and body and then the room around them. It spread fast and unstoppable until it took Dean, too, and there was nothing more.

-o-

He came back to the sound of laughter.

Blinking, he was in the dark again. Turning, he found his black-eyed guide nearly keeled over with laughter. "You should have seen your _face_," he said, gasping for breath.

"What?" Dean asked.

The Sam looked at him, dimples deep in his cheeks. "When the little guy pulled out the eyes," he said. "I told them you'd react like that."

Dean shook his head. This was going too fast and too slow and too _wrong_ to keep up with. "What the hell are you talking about? And how the hell am I supposed to get Sam out of here if none of them are the ones I need to talk to?"

Straightening, Sam's laughter still, but the bemused smile was still on his face. "And you think you know which ones you need to talk to?"

"One who can make an executive decision, preferably."

"Oh," Sam said with a measure of surprise. "See, that's your problem. There aren't really any executive decision. We seem to work on a democracy in here, of the truest sense. Not that whole representative one Americans believe in. But we get a straight up vote."

"We?"

"Each Sam. Me, the little guy you just met--you name it, we all get an equal say."

It wasn't what Dean wanted to hear. "So what's the point of the trips down memory lane?" he snapped.

"You wanted to help Sam," he said with a shrug.

"Which I could do if you weren't screwing with them," Dean said, stepping forward. "What you did to Sam as a kid--you can't do that. He's just a _kid_. You should protect him."

"What? By lying to him?" Sam asked, eyebrows raised. "Because that worked out so well for all of you."

Dean's jaw clenched. "You can't make him the black-eyed freak. That's _you_."

The bemusement faded from Sam's face. "That's the problem with black-eyed freaks, I suppose," he said, dryly. "We never follow the rules like good little boys."

"You're just lucky that I haven't found a way to drag you out of my brother myself."

"Yeah, good luck with that one," Sam said with a roll of his eyes. "The others have tried. There was the one time with the exorcism, but that was just messy and painful for everyone involved."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, wait," Sam said. "I forget that you don't know that stuff."

"Don't know what stuff?"

"The things we try to do to fix us," Sam said with a shrug. "We had a whole incident with a gun in the bathroom which nearly ended very poorly, but the exorcism we tried in the shower last month really did take the cake. Luckily, we had enough brains left to do it in the bathroom so you wouldn't see the blood."

It wasn't possible--it wasn't true. The implications were hard to overlook--hints of suicide and masochism of the deepest sense--but there were too many things. Too many lies and he shouldn't be trusting a Sam whose eyes could go black. "I'm getting tired of your games," Dean said. "I just want to help my brother. Now can I help him or not?"

"You can," Sam said.

"Then, _let me_."

"Figure it out, genius," Sam said pointedly. "I'm trying to let you."

"I don't want to relive Sam's life," Dean told him. "I just want to wake him up before the doctor wants to pull the plug."

"And how do you save a life, Dean?" Sam asked, mouth quirked thoughtfully.

"By getting his ass out of here."

"Logistically, that might be problematic."

Dean rolled his eyes. "The first thing I'm doing when I get out of here, is to find a way to get rid of _you_."

Sam laughed, and shook head. "The rest have tried," he said. "I keep _telling_ you, and you keep not _listening_. You can't get rid of me. I'm as much Sam as that sweet little thing you just saw."

"He didn't have black eyes." 

"He just didn't know how to use them."

Dean's rage mounted. "You leave my baby brother alone," he seethed. "He doesn't need you filling his head with your crap."

Sam seemed unfazed. "But he needs you lying to him? Ordering him around? Calling him a freak?"

"Being his _brother_."

Sam's eyes darkened. "Then it's about time you started acting like it."

Dean didn't flinch this time, but stepped closer. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

Sam looked at him, eyes still black. "You want to help? Then _help_. Answer the questions, Dean. _Answer the questions_."

Sam was talking in riddles. He was backwards and forwards and sideways until Dean wasn't even sure this _was_ his brother. It could be some kind of latent possession, something Dean didn't know about, some kind of weird parasitical relationship--which would explain why Sam was acting like such a freak, conscious and not. But Dean came here to _help_, not get _lost_, and his patience with the entire ordeal was just about shot. Maybe Sam really was gone--maybe this stuff that was left was residual memories. Maybe he'd been right and Sam never really had been his brother.

He shook his head, trying to focus. Sam or possessed or some weird amalgamation, there was one way out of here, and this black eyed freak was standing in his way. "What questions?" he demanded, the strain of desperation coloring his words.

The black eyes narrowed, swirling with inky nothingness. "Who am I, Dean? What is that worth?"

The same question. Again and again and _again_. All his answers weren't good enough--just like always. He didn't know what Sam _wanted_. But he knew the answer to this one--better than the rest, and he didn't even hesitate. "You? You are a selfish son of a bitch who doesn't belong in my brother," Dean seethed. "And that is worth killing you, right here, right now."

The anger diffused from Sam's face and his eyes cleared. "I told them you wouldn't get it."

"Get _what_?"

Sam shrugged, a little resigned. "We'll give it one more try," he said. "And pay attention this time, okay?"

And Sam snapped his fingers and Dean was tumbling toward oblivion.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: So this is it. And it's out just in time before Kripke has his way and S5 premieres. Hopefully the resolution works--I admit, the hardest part of this was writing the ending, which, I am glad to say is actually somewhat hopeful--or at least intended to be. Thanks again to geminigrl11 and sendintheclowns and for everyone who took the time to read and review. I hope it's been a good ride for everyone :)

CHAPTER FOUR

_Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend_

_Somewhere along in the bitterness_

_And I would have stayed up with you all night_

_Had I known how to save a life_

_How to save a life _

-from "How to Save a Life" by the Fray

-o-

He was greeted by sunlight, sharp and blinding. It took a moment for him to focus, and this time, it was a place he didn't recognize.

A city street. Quiet and laid back. There were couples eating in an open air cafe across the street.

Squinting, Dean looked down the street, and was immediately greeted with a lanky figure walking toward him.

His brother's gait was obvious, but it was hard to place where they were. Sam's hair was short and his face was still boyish. He had his height but not his bulk, and given the relaxed, easy going smile on his face, Dean could make the logical guess. "Dude, we've been here," Dean said, with a sigh of exasperation. "Come on. Palo Alto. Again?"

Sam didn't seem to be listening to him, though.

His brother paused, looking at the storefront Dean was standing by. With a deep breath, Sam opened the door and went inside.

Dean looked at the name: _Palo Alto Fine Jewelry_.

It was enough of a surprise to make Dean stop, something tugging at his gut. He could remember the Yellow-Eyed Demons taunts--vaguely. _Ring shopping_.

Sam was preparing to propose to Jessica.

Seeing Sam with Jess had been one thing. Seeing Sam ring shop? Made Dean proud and brokenhearted all at once.

This had been the future Sam had wanted for himself. This had been what Sam had built for himself. And to think of his brother planning this and knowing how it would end--it was almost more than Dean could take.

He didn't want to go in. He didn't want to see it. He didn't think he could handle it.

He had no choice.

With a sigh, he stepped forward. Opening the door, bells tinkled. Dean smiled at one of the employees and made his way over toward Sam.

His brother was standing at the counter, holding a ring. This time, Sam did look up. His eyes were young and bright and so innocent that Dean could not doubt that this Sam was real.

"Dean. I've been looking for diamonds," Sam said, a grin on his face. "I don't have the money for, not yet. I've been working three extra jobs, saving every cent. I had to give up coffee and I thought Jess would kill me when I got rid of cable. But it's worth it." He looked at the ring in his hand. "It's so worth it, don't you think?"

He looked up at Dean, holding out the ring again.

Dean looked at it, the sunlight catching, sparkling magnificently. It was beautiful, there was no doubt. Dean didn't have to know Jess to know that she would love it. Pure and simple, clean and elegant: it was the epitome of grace and beauty and value.

"Of course," Dean said, and the emotion suddenly took him. Seeing Sam here, seeing how much hope he had. In all of Sam's other incarnations, Dean had never seen him look like this. So happy, so peaceful. Hopeful.

And then Dean remembered the look on Sam's face when Jessica burned over his head, and it hurt to think of that hope being squelched.

Sam looked back at the ring, eyes wide with wonder. "They say that rings have inherent value," he said. "That the diamond is perfect, worth so much for what it is, and when given in love--well, that is the best combination."

Dean took a measured breath, feeling the urge to cry. "Yeah, Sam," Dean said. "It is."

Then Sam looked at him, and Sam wasn't twenty-two anymore, he was ageless, just like before. "Who am I, Dean?"

There was that question again. The one he was asked again and again and again.

But what was the answer? What did Sam want to hear?

Looking at his brother, looking at the hope on his face, the simple need, Dean remembered the day Sam was born, the feeling of holding him and knowing this was his responsibility. He remembered the way it felt to carry Sam out of the house when he was four years old. He remembered the way it felt to sell his soul for Sam's life.

There was only one answer he could give: "You're my brother, Sammy. You're my _brother_."

Sam thought about that for a moment. He took an even breath, looking at the ring, and then looking at his brother again. "And what is that worth?"

"It's worth getting out of here," Dean said. "Don't you think? We should blow this joint, just you and me. You don't _belong _here."

"But I don't belong anywhere," Sam said. "I tried to fit in here. I tried to fit in with Jess. I tried to fit in with you and Dad, I tried to fit in at school. I tried to fit into hunting, into being the good son, the good brother, and I _failed_. I don't know how to not fail again."

"You didn't fail," Dean said, trying to smile. "You just...got a little turned around."

"I failed you. I failed dad. I failed Jess," Sam said, and he looked at the ring again. He put it back on the counter and smiled sadly. "I don't even have enough money for this ring. I almost got there, but I didn't quite. I failed at that, too. I can't be a son, a lover, a _brother_ until I can be myself. I need inherent value, Dean. Not yours. You don't have enough for me. No one has enough for me."

"Sammy," Dean said, and he wanted to make a joke. He wanted to lighten the mood, to tell his brother he was wrong.

But in some ways, Sam _wasn't_ wrong. The failures were clear. Every Sam he met, from the addict to the little boy, was created by failure. Lived it, breathed it, existed in it. From being left out of his mother's memory to not being a good enough hunter to getting kicked out to watching Jessica die. All of it. Their dad's death. The big secret. Dying in Cold Oak. Failing to save Dean from Hell. Killing Lilith only to bring on the end of the world.

Sam _had _failed. Again and again and again and _again_. And Dean hadn't seen it. Hadn't cared. Had promised to make it better or hated Sam for it. Because Sam was his brother, simple as that. Sam was John's son, Jessica's lover, Dean's brother, Ruby's bitch, but maybe that was the problem. Maybe that was the failure that mattered the most.

Sam looked at him. "I'm sorry, but you're going to fail at this, too," he said.

Dean cocked his head. "What?"

And the scene flashed out.

-o-

This time, Dean was ready for the black-eyed freak.

Without fail, that Sam was standing there, arms crossed over his chest, a small smirk playing on his lips.

"You getting it yet?"

"Getting what?" Dean said, narrowing his eyes at him. This was getting old--redundant and repetitive and _pointless_. "You're just screwing with me."

Sam shook his head, feigning innocence. "I'm trying to help."

"Oh, whatever," Dean said. "You're just dragging me through memories to see how long it takes before I freak out on you. Is that how you get your kicks?"

"You're really good at making this all about _you_."

"What else is it about?"

"Maybe about _us_," Sam said. "_Sam_. You know, the brother you came in here to _save_."

"So what's with the magic mystery tour, then? Why not just let me talk to my brother so we can blow this joint?"

"This _joint_ is our consciousness. If we _blow _it, then we're dead. Which I thought was what _you_ wanted to avoid."

Dean groaned. "I don't understand what you think I'm going to do. They're all _nuts_. Each Sam after the next."

Sam shrugged. "What? You want an apology for the sad state of our mind? Emotional trauma, man. Surely you can relate."

Dean forced himself to stay calm. As much as he wanted to attack this freak, he had no one else even remotely sane to deal with in here. Whether this was Sam or a version of Sam or something else entirely, this was his ticket out. "Just tell me what I'm supposed to do," he said slowly and purposefully."

"We're _trying_," Sam said.

"How?" Dean demanded.

"Put it together, Dean," Sam said. "Think about what you've seen. You don't need to go to college to have basic reasoning skills. I know you can figure this out. At least, the rest of them seem to think so."

"Figure what out?" Dean snapped. "How to get Sam out? Because every time I try to talk to Sam, we keep coming back to the same thing."

"Exactly," Sam said.

"Hate to break it to you, but I didn't come here for a self-help lesson."

"Then why did you come here again?" Sam asked, with a tilt of his head.

"To save Sam's life!" Dean exploded. He ran a hand through his hair turning away.

"But what about our soul?" Sam shot back. He stepped closer, slipping around Dean and looking down to meet his eyes. "What about our _soul_?"

"What about it?" Dean asked, more than a little frustrated. "You think I can fix this?"

"What's the point of saving our life if you don't even want to touch what matters?"

Dean made a face. "What, like you?"

Sam's jaw clenched, his eyes darkening a little reflexively. "I'm part of this whether you want to admit it or not."

"I'll choose not."

"What about the rest of them, then?" Sam asked. "What about them?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Who are they and what are they worth, right?" he said. "The same damn questions, every Sam I meet."

"Oh, come on, Dean," Sam said, shaking his head. "We're logical, right down to our little baby self. We're showing you this stuff for a reason."

"What reason? To drive me insane? To show me how much of a freak Sam really is?"

Sam gave him a bitter smile. "It's not all about you."

"Then tell me what you want."

Sam rolled his eyes. "That Stanford version is about as obvious as they come," he said. "I was sure you'd figure that one out."

"Figure what out."

"Inherent value, Dean," Sam said with a huff of exasperation. "Inherent value given in love. A diamond is worth something in and of itself. Devoid of context, it has unspeakable worth. And when it is packaged and given in love, as a perfect gift, then it is priceless."

"Yeah, so?"

"So think of the opposite," Sam said. "Something worth nothing in and of itself, something conceived of hate and pain and fear."

Dean just shook his head. Sam was speaking in riddles, and this head trip was more than he could take. "I don't understand."

"You do understand," Sam said and his eyes went dark as he stepped closer. "Because you were there, at the beginning. You were there. You know how this began." Sam paused, tilting his head, stepping back. "Or do you need a reminder there, kiddo?"

At that, Sam's eyes went yellow and his smile turned feral.

Dean gasped, his hackles raised, but he had no means to fight this, nothing he could do.

"You're pretty lucky," Sam continued. "When your mommy and daddy made you, it was all love, baby. Two people, coming together. And your mother was so happy when she found out she was going to have you. Your dad, he bought her the entire house. They couldn't afford it and, let me tell you, it was a piece of junk. He spent every free minute renovating it and they picked out all the things in your nursery so it was just right. They took every class, they read all the books. They printed out little birth announcements to tell everyone how proud they were."

Dean couldn't be sure how he knew, couldn't totally understand how this was Sam, how this was in Sam, but he couldn't doubt its validity. Because he knew it, he knew it with the love and joy he remembered of his early years. He knew it with every fiber of his being from the four best years of his life.

"Do you want to know what your mother did when she found out she was pregnant with Sam? She cried, Dean, and not those tears of happiness. Oh no. She cried because she knew. She was a smart woman and she knew about deals and she knew about the price they carried. And she knew that there was no way she should be pregnant, not with the birth control and the condoms she made sure they used. Because she didn't need another baby. She didn't want another baby. She had you, and, more than that, she knew she couldn't risk a baby then. Too bad for her that the pill doesn't protect against demon interference."

Dean trembled. It wasn't true. It wasn't.

"Oh, don't give me that," Sam said shaking his head, yellow eyes boring into Dean's skull. "Sammy's all Winchester, don't worry. But your mother made a deal, you see. And it defied Heaven and Earth, so you'd better believe that human intervention wasn't going to stop it. When little Sammy was born, she held him in her arms and prayed that he would die. Prayed that we would never find out what the cost was for her weakness. Your mother, though, never was very lucky. That's where poor Sammy gets that from."

"Shut up," Dean said, his voice strained and low. This was his family tragedy, only worse, so much worse, even worse than seeing his mother make the deal, seeing her sell Sam out before he even existed. "Shut up."

"You're the one who said it, though," Sam continued with a look of feigned innocent on his face. "That maybe we never were brothers. That I was a monster from the beginning. I may not have had demon blood until I was six months old, but I was damned before I was born. I was created for death and destruction. My inherent value is dependent on the job Hell laid out for me. I was never wanted. I was loved as an afterthought. The world would have been better off without me." He quirked a smile. "Too bad the world never had anything to say about it."

At that, Dean lunged, striking desperately at the thing pretending to be his brother.

The fake Sam just laughed as Dean hit nothing but air. "It's my head," he said from behind Dean. Dean spun, looking at the yellow eyed version of his brother. "You think you have any power? This is the one place where I'm actually free."

"Get out of my brother," Dean told him vehemently.

"But I am your brother, no matter how much you or Sammy boy doesn't want to admit. I have been here since he was six months old. I didn't choose it, but here I am. Sam tries so hard to keep me in check. It takes all of him to keep me under wraps. I don't think you get that, Dean. What it's like to have a monster living in you. Sam may have created the black-eyed guy, but he's weak--sort of a pathetic knockoff that's all good intentioned and screwed up in the head. Me? I'm the mastermind behind it all. I'm the one that can go through all the rest and bring them to their knees. I'm just looking for my opening, and thanks to you, I think I might have finally found it."

It wasn't real. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. "You are not my brother."

"No?" Sam asked. Then he stepped closer, holding Dean's gaze. The pull was irresistible, and Dean couldn't look away, no matter how much he wanted to. And he really wanted to. Wanted to close his eyes to this nightmare once and for all. "Then tell me, who am I?"

"You're the yellow-eyed son of a bitch that started all this," Dean said.

Sam frowned. "I thought I was your brother, Dean," he said.

"You could never be my brother."

Sam made a noise in the back of the throat and brought his eyebrows together in a facsimile of regret. "I'm afraid you really can't have one without the other," he said.

"I should kill you," Dean seethed, because this was the monster Castiel had warned him about. This was the abomination that Uriel had so hated. This was the evil that Zachariah had harkened to. Maybe it had been there all along, maybe it had developed over time. Maybe a damned demon had highjacked Sam's body. Maybe the blood had twisted some part of his little brother's soul. Dean didn't know, didn't want to find out. He just wanted to kill it. If he could kill this, maybe he could still save Sam.

Sam grinned. "Hey, and that's something that the rest of them agree with. We don't deserve to live. Inherent value, remember, Dean? Inherent value, given in love should be cherished forever. The opposite should be forgotten. Neglected. Destroyed. Just like us."

It was a jump in logic Dean hadn't been expecting, and that he hardly knew how to follow.

Sam stepped back, hands out. "So do it," he said. "Do it."

And suddenly, there was a gun in his hands and all he had to do was pull the trigger. Dean looked at it in disbelief, then looked back at Sam. His eyes were glowing now, deep and bright in the blackness of Sam's mind. It was so evil, so wrong, and it would just take one bullet...

"Don't look so surprised," Sam said. "You've had it in you all along. You've always thought I was the special one, when really it was you all along. You're the one who can do this. You can destroy what's evil."

God had work for him to do. To stop Lucifer. To stop the Apocalypse. He had failed in stopping Sam before. And he had to wonder, if he'd had this choice then, if he'd had a gun and no other choice, could he have pulled the trigger? To stop all this? To stop the Apocalypse, to stop Sam, to stop this endless take, take, take of brotherhood?

"Come on, big brother," Sam mocked. "Don't disappointment me now. Follow that order. Be the hero Heaven meant for you to be. Save the world and start by eliminating me."

He was right. He was destined to this, to save the world. Maybe he should have realized this years ago, when his father had died, but he'd never had the guts. He'd traded his soul for Sam at Cold Oak and it had been the worst decision of either of their lives. Maybe he could make this right, though. Eradicate the evil in Sam, once and for all. Kill the source, kill the thing that made Sam evil, and life could go on, better than it was before.

"You wanted to let me die before," Sam said, and he was right. Sam shouldn't have known, but Sam did. Sam knew everything, he knew the secrets Dean tried to keep, the feelings he tried to deny. "You wish you would have left me for dead at Cold Oak. Sparing me is your only regret. Because I'm the same demon that ruined your life, that took everything from you. This is only justice, in the end. Only right."

Sam's logic, as usual, was flawless. Dean had no counter arguments. There was no reason to let this Sam live. Dean couldn't let this part of his brother exist with all the rest. It was too much of a threat, and there had been too much pain--he had had too much pain. His entire life, his mother, his father, himself--

"Do it!" Sam screamed.

The tension built and the inevitability struck him, washing over Dean hot and cold all at once. _Kill him or save him, at least he'll die human, if he ever was my brother--_

Dean pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit Sam straight in the heart, and Sam staggered. For a long second, it was silent, before blood started seeping out, staining his shirt. Sam looked down in wonder, wide-eyed. Then he laughed. "You did it," he said, and there was amusement and there was pain and there was relief. "You finally did it."

Then, to Dean's horror, Sam looked back at him and he was twenty-two again, eyes clear and his face young. "I've been waiting for this," this Sam continued.

Sam morphed again, younger still until he was eighteen, lanky and bruised and scared but ready. "For a very long time."

It was only a second before Sam changed again, to fourteen, to eight, to five, until the puppy dog eyes were looking up at him. When Sam spoke, it was in a child's voice, clear and grateful. "Thank you," he said. "Maybe it'll finally be safe now. And this time, you can totally have the prize."

Just like that, Sam collapsed, the small body limp in the darkness.

On instinct, Dean rushed forward. He had only wanted to kill the one, the yellow-eyed Sam. Maybe the black-eyed one. This wasn't what he had intended--this wasn't it at all--this couldn't be happening.

On his knees, he scooped the young child up, pulling him close. "Sammy," he said. "Sammy, no."

Sam's eyes cracked open, and there was blood on his teeth when smiled. "You can't fight what's inside you," he said. "We don't like to admit it, but we're all connected. Where one goes, we all go. This is why we've worked so hard to separate ourselves. It's to keep the world safe. But it's hard, Dean. It's so very hard. And we're sorry this duty fell to you. We're so very sorry, but it's over now. It's over, and now you can rest."

The child's eyes went black, then yellow, then stopped seeing altogether.

Sam was gone.

All of them. Yellow eyes, black eyes, college Sam, teenage Sam, child Sam. Gone. Dean had only shot to kill the one, and had taken them all as a consequence.

He shook his head. "No," he said. "No, no, no."

Because this wasn't what he wanted. This wasn't what he intended. This wasn't worth it. Dean wanted his brother and if he had to take the good with the bad, the maybe that was an okay price to pay after all.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, cradling the child closer. "Sammy, I'm so sorry."

He was crying then, holding the boy close, and wondering how he had forgotten this. How he had forgotten what Sam meant to him. Not as an object to be protected, not even as his brother, but as _Sam_.

And he thought about what he would give to get a second chance.

But the child in his arms was still limp, and Dean closed his eyes to it all.

-o-

When he opened his eyes, the child was gone. The black room was gone. He was back in the hospital room.

He startled to awareness, jumping out of his chair, tense and ready. He hadn't found the door, but maybe it had found him. Maybe he'd been kicked out. If Sam were waking up, or if Sam were--

He remembered the blood. He remembered his bullet.

Swallowing, he looked to his brother who was still on the bed. Unmoving and pale, the tube was still taped to his face and the monitor above his head beeped with unwavering consistency.

Sam wasn't dead.

Dean felt himself relax, breathing out slowly. Sam was alive.

But was Sam still there?

He leaned forward, sweeping his hand across Sam's forehead. His brother's skin was warm, but there was no flicker of movement.

Sam's psyche wasn't a physical space, but Dean had gone there to pull Sam out. So it had to be possible to affect change of Sam's condition...for better or for worse.

He swallowed hard. He had killed Sam. He'd watch Sam bleed out. What if he had killed what was left of his brother's mind?

Guilt stabbed at him and he chewed his lip, trying to figure out if there was a way to tell. He was reaching for his cell phone when he saw the figure behind him.

At first, he thought it was Bobby, then maybe a nurse. But the figure was unmistakable. Tall, floppy hair. Clad in a hospital issue gown, a vivid display of bruises covering his face and a slice sutured across his forehead.

"Sam?" he asked. "What the...?"

"You know the answer, Dean," Sam said. "You know where you are."

It clicked. "We're still in your freaky head, aren't we?"

Sam just nodded, but he didn't look at Dean. He was studying himself, watching his mirror image on the bed.

Dean looked between them, shifting uncomfortably. "So, um. What are we doing here?"

"Thinking about the situation," Sam said practically. "We have to be here in order to understand the risks and the benefits. Until we understand all that, we can't make the right conclusion."

"What decision are we making? I mean, if it's a toss up between bed pans or catheter, I got to tell you, you really should have opted for the bed pan."

Sam didn't laugh. In fact, Sam didn't even move. "We have to decide whether we should live or die," Sam said simply.

Dean sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "After everything I've been through, this is where you bring me? The question of life or death? I hate to sound a little _Trainspotting_ for you, but the answer is choose life, okay? So can we get this show on the road and hightail it out of here before you hand me any more guns and yell at me until I shoot?"

Sam barely seemed to hear him. "I've gone over it all very carefully," he explained. "I thought, I just have to weigh the pros and the cons. What are the reasons I deserve to life? What are the reasons I should die?"

"You can't count the geekiness against yourself," Dean cajoled. "It's your most endearing quality."

Sam sighed, pushing to his feet. "I have tried to think of everything but the list never changes."

Sam turned and was pacing. Then he stopped, looking at Dean. "Maybe you can help me," he said. "Maybe you can help finish the list."

Dean swallowed. "Yeah. Sure," he said. "I think we should put great genetics down in the pro column."

But Sam wasn't listening again. He had turned to a dry erase board that came out of nowhere. It was divided into two and Dean recognized Sam's neat print . One side was covered, overflowing. The other was empty.

"I went through, year by year," Sam said. "I thought about the time I stole candy from the grocery store when I was five. I didn't know it was stealing, but it was still wrong, so I think it counts. And I know I wasn't sorry for the time I lied to dad about the debate tournament, which is why it's on there twice. Once for the lie and then once for not feeling guilty. I suppose I need it a third time for not confessing."

Dean stepped closer, squinting to make out the list. His stomach turned as he took it in. It was everything. Every sin of Sam's life. Every lie, every omission. Every fight with his father. Every time he made Dean feel bad. The time he took the last of the Lucky Charms. The time he didn't shoot fast enough on the hunt when he was fifteen. Leaving for Stanford. Not calling Dean when he thought he should. Lying to Jessica. Lying to Dean. Choking Dean, trusting Ruby, killing the nurse, drinking the blood, letting Lucifer out, not saving Dean: the list was overwhelming.

Swallowing, he looked at the other side. He noticed, then, that it wasn't empty. There were a handful of name written there: Lori Sorenson, Matt Pike, Charlie in Toledo, Sarah Blake. The people from their successful hunts. The list was full and complete, Dean realized, and painfully bleak in contrast.

"You see it now, right? That you were right? That I don't deserve to live."

Dean's heart was in his throat. "Sam--"

"You pulled the trigger for a reason," Sam told him plainly.

"It wasn't you."

Sam nodded. "It was me," Sam said. "That was who I've always been. It's part of me, just like this is. Just like all of them are. If one deserves to die, we all deserve to die. Tell me I can die now, Dean. _Please_."

Sam had asked him to kill him before. Sam had begged for his gun and for Dean to leave before. But this--this was different. It was stark and cruel, not because Sam was leaving it up to Dean to make the choice, but because the only thing holding Sam back from the brink was Dean. His brother _wanted_ to die.

He'd known Sam was messed up, but he'd had no idea....

"Sam," he breathed, looking at the list again. "You can't--judge it on that stuff."

"Why not?" Sam asked. "Actions, right? You told me it was what I did. It was my actions. That's what condemned me. Nothing inside of me, just the simple stuff. So I did it your way. I looked at it all and you were right. You were always right."

Dean shook his head, feeling the words rumble in his throat as if he'd just said it yesterday. _If I didn't know you, I would want to hunt you. It's the lies. It makes you a monster_. "No," he said, looking at Sam again. "I was wrong. You're more than this."

"Then who am I, Dean?"

Dean ran his hand through his hair, his frustration mounted. He'd been asked that, again and again and again. And none of the answers were right. None of them. "I don't know," he said. "I don't know, I don't know, I don't know."

"You do," Sam replied. He stepped closer. "You've known for awhile now. You've known since you made the deal for me and lived to regret it. You knew that first day in Hell. You knew that I am nothing. And I've always been nothing. And if you'd just figured it out sooner, you could have spared yourself so much pain."

His eyes burned and he shook his head, but his voice wouldn't work.

Sam nodded, relentless. "I am a _monster_," he said. "I am an aberration. An abomination."

Dean breathed hard but couldn't find his voice.

Sam was closer still. "And can you tell me what that's worth?"

Dean just closed his eyes.

Sam kept talking anyway. "I am worth _nothing_. I never should have been born. Most souls have inherent worth, and most of them are made more precious because they are born of love and hope. I was born of an evil deal. I have no worth. The world would be better without me at all. You would be better without me."

The logic was powerful and pervasive. Dean's heart ached to disagree, the words sat on his tongue, the arguments were in his head, but he couldn't do anything with them. He was paralyzed here, trapped by Sam's inevitable conclusions. Numbed not by what his brother had _done_. But by the lessons Sam had learned. Where there was tragedy, Sam saw failure. Where there were heroics, Sam saw too little, too late. Where there was pain, Sam saw blame.

Where there was _Sam_, his brother saw _monster, freak_. Where there should have been love and compassion toward him, Sam felt only hate.

Seeing it now, it seemed obvious. This was what Sam was trying to tell him. This was the point Sam was trying to make. That he was a monster. That he was worthless. That Dean should let him go.

He opened his eyes. Sam was still looking at him, almost unblinking. "Can I go now, Dean? I'll fight only as long as you tell me to, but when you're ready to quit, you can just say the word."

He shook his head. "No, Sam..."

Sam's eyes filled. "I don't deserve this favor," he said. "I know. But--it might be for the best. For you. For the universe."

"Sam, _no_," he said again, shaking his head.

"But why?" Sam asked. "You're tired. You're angry at me. You told me I'm a monster. You did your job as well as anyone could. You don't have to keep doing this."

It would be easier, Dean thought. A life without Sam was a life without burden. A life free of responsibility. No one there to drag him down. No one there to hold him back. No one there to check up on. No one there to worry about. He could save the world and just walk away and never look back. But with Sam--

With Sam, he had to worry about the blood. He had to worry about the powers. He had to worry about the target Sam had painted on his own back.

Part of him wanted to say okay. Sam's logic was good. Damn near perfect.

But this wasn't a logical decision.

This was a compassionate decision.

It was so foreign, and so _right_.

Dean swallowed and found his voice. "I want to do this," he said. "And I want you to."

At that, a tear slipped from Sam's eyes. He looked back at the list and dropped his head. "Okay," he said.

Then the monitors wailed and commotion broke out and Dean was forced aside as doctors and nurses flooded the room.

In horror, Dean watched as they cut open Sam's gown and put paddles to Sam's chest. A charge of electricity jolted through Sam's body, and Sam arched off the bed.

Again and again.

Terrified, Dean pulled himself into a corner. He closed his eyes to the scene, closed his eyes to the sight of his brother's unresponsive form, and just let himself melt away.

-o-

He was back where he began. The endless void. Bleak nothingness stretching as far as the eye could see. The black-eyed Sam was gone--so was the Yellow-Eyed one. This time, Dean was alone.

For a moment, he couldn't move. Didn't _want _to move.

And then, he didn't have to. The scene came to him, a light illuminating the expanse and Dean saw Sam curled up on the floor. His brother was trembling, too skinny and too pale, pulling at his hair.

And, after all of it, Dean still didn't know how to help him.

He watched for a moment, listened to Sam's murmurs and observed the slow rocking.

It was wrong, Dean realized. Not just creepy and unnerving, but _wrong_. But, after everything, Dean suddenly understood how it ended up like this. From the five year old just wanting to belong to the eighteen year old clinging to hope to the twenty-something who had lost it all. Sam's life was one of lost hopes, broken dreams. It was a slow deconstruction, dismantled piece by piece until _this _was all there was.

Because Dean couldn't leave Sam like this. He _couldn't_.

Licking his lips, he hesitated. He wanted to reach out, to touch Sam, but he was afraid the rest of Sam would unravel before he could. He opted to speak instead. "Sam," he said. "Sam, you can stop now. We can talk about this. We can make it better."

Dean had to believe that. It had to be true; it was all that mattered. He'd seen Sam's memories. He'd seen Sam's inner demons. Now he just wanted to bring Sam back.

To his surprise, Sam stilled.

Dean's breath caught in his throat. "Sam?"

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Sam turned his head, looking up at Dean through stringy hair and deep set eyes. "Why are you still here?"

His voice was strained and muted, a little ragged around the edges from too much use, but it was surprisingly coherent.

Dean swallowed. "I have to get you home, little brother."

"I don't have a home," Sam said. "I don't deserve a home."

"Well, good thing you don't get to choose then," Dean said, trying to keep his voice from cracking. "You belong with me."

"I don't deserve to be anywhere near you."

"Sam, come on," Dean said, feeling desperate.

"I wish I could."

"You _can_."

"You just want that to be true because you're here," Sam told him. "You didn't even want to come here."

How Sam could know that, Dean wasn't sure. Dean wasn't sure about a lot of things. He wasn't sure what parts of his brother were real and what parts weren't; he wasn't sure if Sam could ever be the person he once was or if this was who Sam had always been. He couldn't be sure if he hated Sam or just hated how much he didn't know Sam; if he resented Sam or just Sam's weakness.

"It's the question you ask yourself every day," Sam told him.

"What question?"

Sam looked at him, and the eyes were the same. The same as the five year old, the teenager, the one in the hospital room, the evil one who took him around. Open, wide, simple: vulnerable. "Who am I, Dean?" he asked.

All his answers came back to him, each wrong answer after another. _All questions have answers, you just have to find the right one. _And suddenly, he only had one answer to give. "You're Sam," he said, a little desperate, because that's all there was. "You're Sam."

His brother held his gaze and it was the puppy dog look Dean remembered from a long time ago. Dean hadn't realized until now how long it had been. "And what is that worth?" he asked.

Dean's breath escaped hard and his shoulders sagged. "It's worth waking up, Sam," he said. "It's worth waking up."

Sam looked at him, hard and simple. Then he nodded. "Okay," he said.

And then Dean was gone, the expanse around him sucked away, as Dean hurtled backwards, once and for all.

-o-

He came to with a gasp, like a newborn baby. For a moment, his eyes couldn't focus, too assaulted by _life_ and _living_ and _alive_.

He sucked in another breath and realization came back to him along with his senses. Sitting up straight, he looked around, overwhelmed by the sense of deja vu. Sam on the bed, still and unmoving.

Then, Bobby's voice: "Dean? Dean, you with me, son?"

Blinking, Dean looked up. The older man was standing over him, looking frazzled and more than a bit frantic.

Looking from Bobby to Sam then back again, reality settled over him with a newfound certainty. He was back.

Not just another illusion, not a manifestation of his brother's head. But _back_. In his own consciousness.

"Dean, you better say something quick before I call the nurse to check you out," Bobby threatened.

With a breath, Dean shook himself back into full awareness. "I'm fine," he said, surprised by the strength of his own voice. "I just--I'm back."

Bobby raised his eyebrows. "You're back?" he asked. "You didn't leave."

Dean's brow furrowed and he stood. Edging past Bobby, he went to Sam's side, peering down at him intently. "There's no change?"

"I've been more focused on you for the last few minutes."

Dean mentally assessed his brother. Lifeless and colorless, Sam appeared unchanged. Dean winced. "He said okay."

"You made it?" Bobby pushed. "You found Sam."

Dean licked his lips. "I found a lot of Sams."

"So he's still in there?" 

"He's still in there," Dean confirmed. He looked at his own feet as he tried to make sense of it. "Just...lost."

"Like he can't find his way out lost?"

Dean cast Bobby a short look. "Like he doesn't want to come out lost."

Bobby's face went hard for a moment, before he seemed to deflate. "So did you get through to him?"

"I thought so," Dean said. Because after everything. After each memory and each question, Sam had said _okay_. Dean had thought it was enough--he had hoped.

"Maybe it takes some time for it to kick in?" Bobby ventured. "The kid has been pretty out of it. The list of injuries is going to take more than some dream walking to come out of."

It was a logical argument. Dean wanted to believe it.

But he'd seen Sam. He'd seen the desire to give up. He'd seen the self-hatred. He'd seen the regret, the loathing, the misery. He'd seen the list. He'd seen his brother's eyes go black then yellow then clear again and Dean couldn't even be sure if Sam waking up was a safe bet with that kind of thing running around.

But there was also a broken Sam. A vulnerable one. One that hurt and that ached and that just needed to know. That just wanted to be happy.

He wanted that Sam back.

He just had to ask himself, if it was an all or nothing deal, would he still take it?

"So what do you want to do?" Bobby asked. "We can try again--"

Dean shook his head. "We wait," he said, looking full into his brother's face. "We wait."

-o-

So they waited. Another night passed with no change. Sam's condition was stable but still critical. The odds continued to worsen.

Bobby left in the morning to wash up at a motel. He said something about a few leads to check out, and Dean had let him leave with so much as a second glance. Because he couldn't take his eyes off Sam.

It had been months since he'd let himself really look at his brother. Not just the cursory glances or the necessary hunting exchanges--but really _look_ at Sam. The man he'd become. Not just the addict or the boy with demon blood, but _Sam_. There were battle scars Dean didn't recognize, some he probably should, and he tried to figure out when he'd lost track of so much. Maybe when the Apocalypse started, maybe when he got back from Hell. Maybe when he made the deal, maybe when their father died.

Maybe long before that.

Hell was worse than everything, Dean had no doubt. That was why it was Hell. But with his torture, Dean had been given something greater than he'd ever realized: hope. The possibility of making it right was a powerful tool, even if he didn't agree with the way the angels wanted him to do that, even if he wasn't sure he could do it, it was the idea that it was _possible_. The notion that there was at least an opportunity to make right what he'd broken. The reality that maybe his story didn't end in Hell, but somewhere in the realms of glory.

That was what made getting up each morning worthwhile. That was what made his fight worth it. It was who Dean was, mind, body, and soul. It was more fulfilling than anything he'd had growing up, to finally be someone other than John Winchester's good little soldier. To be something more than Sammy's big brother.

Sam had no such hope. Sam had no such role anymore. Sam had nothing. Sam had shot his load with Lilith, he'd fulfilled his role to a terrible T, and he'd brought the world down in his fall. Sam should have known better, and yet Sam had maybe never had a chance, and ultimately, it didn't matter. It would never matter because Sam's part in this was over. Dead or alive, the story would go on just as it should without him.

And that was more horrible than even Alastair's rack in Hell. It was worse than anything. Dean remembered waking up in the hospital after Alastair had gotten loose--he remembered the despair and the anguish and just wanting it to end. He remembered wishing that he could just go back to Hell where he could forget who he was, once and for all, and let it all go.

He hadn't agreed with Zachariah's methods or even his motives, but, in the end, living as not-Dean for a day and seeing what his life was worth in fresh eyes was enough to keep him going. He had told Sam it ended sad and bloody and that was probably still true, but not before he fixed it.

And in the months since Lucifer had been freed, Dean had never felt stronger. In so many ways, Sam's weakness had justified him. Reassured him that he was right.

He just never considered the impact for Sam, on what it was like to be that wrong.

Sam was wrong, of course, about a lot of things. How much penance was sufficient? But how long was long enough? Were some sins unforgivable or should he have let his brother lose himself in the self-inflicted darkness of his mind?

Dean dropped his head, rubbing his hand over his face. He didn't have to kill or save his brother anymore--it was a moot point. So what was he doing now? What were they doing now? Dean was saving the world and Sam was following because he felt too guilty to do anything else.

_Who am I, Dean?_

Mary's son. John's soldier. Jessica's love. Hell's bitch. Heaven's pawn. Dean's brother.

Sam.

_And what is that worth, Dean?_

Sam was still the man who had broken the seal. He was still the man who had trusted a demon, and drank blood and let a woman be killed. Sam was still the man who had broken Lucifer out, the one who had choked Dean and lied to him.

But Sam was more than that. Sam was still the man Jess fell in love with. Sam was still the teenager just looking for a way to be happy. Sam was still a little boy who just wanted to know why. Sam was a kid who just wanted to feel safe. Sam was still a baby who had to be loved even when he shouldn't have been there at all. Sam was still the man who fought by Dean's side, even when all he wanted to do was to curl up and die.

"Enough," Dean whispered. He looked up, taking in his brother's pale face. A tear tracked down his face. "God, Sammy. It's worth more than enough."

He had nothing left to give, and he feared Sam had nothing left to offer. But Dean wasn't ready to let go yet.

Carefully, mindful of the IVs and other tubes, Dean took his brother's hand and held on. Watching the rise and fall of Sam's chest, Dean remembered everything, and he didn't let go.

-o-

There was no change that night. The hours dwindled on, long and endless. Bobby came and went, bearing coffee or candy bars, even a stale plate of mashed potatoes at some point. Dean ate enough to appease the older hunter, but he had his task now, and he could not be swayed from it.

When dawn broke, it found things still unchanged: Bobby slumped in a chair, Dean leaned forward at Sam's bedside, and Sam, still all but lifeless on the hospital bed. When breakfast came, Bobby roused, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He did the courtesy of thanking the nurse, who left with little more than a sympathetic look at Sam and Dean.

Dean didn't care. He didn't need her sympathy. He just needed his brother.

Stretching, Bobby groaned, his joints popping. "I'm too old for this," he groaned.

Dean gave him a sideways look. "I told you, you should have gone to the motel last night."

"And I told you, you needed to eat something."

"I'm fine," Dean said.

Bobby snorted. "Like Hell."

Dean shot him a look. "Sam needs me."

Bobby just shook his head, looking a little bemused. "Yesterday ,you were ready to let go," he said. "What exactly did you see in there?"

Dean held his breath for a moment, casting Sam a look. He remembered his little brother, the things Dean had never seen before the Dream Walk, never understood. He let the air out, and shook his head. "He's still in there, Bobby," he said softly.

"I know," Bobby said. "But he always has been."

Dean caught the implication. He could still hear his own voice, saying maybe Sam never was his brother. He'd been foolish and angry then, but part of him had believed it. More of him had believed that everything good in Sam had been consumed by the demon blood. He'd almost given up on Sam for those reasons.

But not now. Not when he knew his brother was fighting to hold onto himself more than he was fighting to hold onto his life. Not when the only thread that kept Sam tethered to reality was Dean himself.

"I know that now," Dean said. He let his fingers linger on his brother's.

Bobby smiled a little, and rested a hand on his shoulder. "You sure I can't do anything for you boys?"

"You've done more than enough," Dean told him tightly. "Why don't you go back to the motel now. Get cleaned up. You can check back in when you're done."

"Will you take a break when I get back?"

"I'll take a break when Sam's awake."

Bobby sighed. "Will you at least eat something?"

"Bobby--"

"I ain't moving unless you promise me that much," the older man said. "Think about what Sam would want."

It was the right leverage. Dean sighed. "Okay," he said. "I'll eat. Now go."

"I won't be long," Bobby assured him.

Dean nodded his assent. "Hey, Bobby," Dean said.

The hunter paused in the doorway, looking back.

"Thanks again," Dean said. His eyes flicked to Sam. "For everything."

Bobby grunted affectionately. "There's nothing I wouldn't do for you boys," he said. "And you two like to push it to the limit. All that dying and coming back to life and nearly dying again." 

Dean grinned.

"Take care of your brother," Bobby said gently.

"You don't have to remind me of that."

"Well, at least one of you has woken up," Bobby said. "I trust Sam won't be far behind. You two can't do anything alone."

With that, the older man left, and Dean couldn't help but smile. This time, he had no doubt that Bobby was right.

-o-

It was only a half hour later when the duty nurse came in. "How are you two doing today?" she asked with a friendly smile.

Dean offered her a small smile in return. "We'll be better once we blow this joint," he said.

Her smile turned a little wan. "Well, let's see how Sam is faring today, huh?" she said, making her way to Sam's side. She checked the IV first, then gave the monitors a read. "No changes or anything, right?"

Dean pursed his lips. "No," he said.

She nodded expectantly. She fiddled with a dial on the ventilator, and carefully rearranged the tube in Sam's mouth. "We don't want him to get sore," she told Dean.

She sounded reassuring enough, but it wasn't consolation Dean wanted.

Oblivious, she continued on in her work, jotting some notes on his chart and changing the IV bag. She made short work of Sam's cath bag as well, before looking at the monitors again.

Dean saw her pause. Her head cocked a little. "Have you touched anything?" she asked uncertainly.

Worry flared up in Dean. "No."

She pushed a button or two, then raised her eyebrows. "Excuse me," she said. "I need to go get a doctor right away."

Dean sat up straight. "What's going on?"

"It's nothing--"

"Cut the crap," Dean said. "Why do you need a doctor? Is Sam okay?"

"He's more than okay," she told him. "I think he's waking up."

With that, she left, the door closing behind her. But Dean didn't hear it. Didn't see her go. Her words resounded in his head _I think he's waking up_.

-o-

Dean watched the doctor's examination anxiously. Every test, every probe, Dean was keenly aware of it. He flinched as the doctor's hands passed over Sam's surgical scar and he had to wince when she pushed at Sam's broken ribs.

When she was done, she took off her gloves and turned to Dean with a smile on her face.

"What?" Dean asked.

The doctor gave a sigh. "Well," he said. "Your brother is still in serious condition. The surgical site is healing nicely, but the broken ribs are still going to take some time. I expect he's going to need further therapy for his shoulder to get it back to functioning, but I do think he'll get there with some work."

Dean shook his head, confused. "His shoulder? But--the nurse said--"

The doctor just smiled, shaking her head. "Dean, I haven't talked to you much about Sam's recovery because he hasn't had any hope of one," she said. "I wasn't worried about rehabbing his shoulder because your brother was clinically brain dead." 

Dean's brow furrowed, his mind feeling sluggish.

The doctor's smile widened. "That's not the case anymore."

"That's--what?"

She laughed a little. "I can't explain it," she told him honestly. "Your brother's tests from yesterday indicated no activity. There was no hope for any meaningful recovery."

Dean felt hope surge within him. " But now?"

"But now his brain waves are decided stronger. I can't say for sure when, but I can say he's waking up."

"He's waking up?" Dean asked. He looked anxious at Sam. "He'll be okay?"

"Well, that's hard to predict," she said, her tone carrying a hint of warning. "Your brother still sustained a significant head injury. There is still a high probability that he'll have incurred some kind of damage."

Dean snorted. "You mean like your high probability that Sam was never going to wake up."

The doctor had to look chagrined at that. "I'll just say that I'm very happy to be wrong," she said. "Now, please be aware. This process is bound to be slow. The trauma to your brother's body is still severe. I'm moving him off the critical list, but I don't expect him to return to full awareness for at least a day or so. Maybe longer."

"Well, clearly you haven't met Sam," Dean said. "He's a bit of an overachiever."

She looked down at her patient. "Well, I can say I'm looking forward to it," she said. "I just don't want you to get your hopes up too high. Sam has a long road ahead of him."

"Yeah, well," Dean said. "That's nothing new."

But this time, Dean promised, Sam wouldn't have to go it alone.

-o-

It was a long day--maybe even longer than the rest. Because each moment was measured with the weight of possibility now. Every moment, every second, Dean spent at his brother's side--just watching, just waiting.

Bobby came back, and reamed Dean out for not calling him. After his angry diatribe he'd pulled Dean into a hug and said, "I might finally get both of you back. I've been waiting so long for that."

Grinning, Dean could only imagine what kind of greeting Sam had in store.

He glanced at the clock, then back at his brother. One thing was certain: he was ready to find out.

-o-

It happened by degrees. Sam's hand twitched that evening. Overnight, he started fighting the tube in his throat. When his eyes started moving under their lids, the doctor took the tube out, and told Dean to keep waiting.

Over the course of the day, Sam moved more--small, spastic movements, little twitches. Then there was moaning and a mumble or two. Then, out of nowhere, Sam opened his eyes.

For a second, Dean thought he was imagining it. After all, he'd spent most of the day thinking about this.

But when he blinked his eyes and realized that Sam's eyes were really in fact _open_, he nearly fell out of his chair in surprise.

Swearing, he fumbled to his feet, leaning over Sam intently. "Sam? You with me? Sammy?"

Bobby was there in an instant, hovering on the other side of Sam.

Sam's eyes darted between the two, confused and scared. Then his mouth twitched and his brow creased. He licked his lips and tried to swallow. His lips parted, and he tried to speak, but the sound that came out was grating and rough.

Dean winced, and Bobby produced a cup of water. It took some work, but with Dean's hand behind Sam's head and Bobby's hand around the cup, Sam managed a few sips.

They settled him back down, and Dean realized that in all of his anticipation he hadn't thought about what to say. About what to do. He'd been so intent on getting Sam _back_, that what happened next was still a mystery to him.

Sam beat him to it. Swallowing hard again, Sam frowned a little. Sam's voice was barely a whisper, muted and strained, but the words were unmistakable: "I'm sorry."

Those were the words Sam had offered him when he let Lucifer out. And Sam had said them in many ways over the last few months. For Dean, they had always been too little, too late. A meager penance. Lip service.

Now, they just broke his heart.

"Hey," Dean said. "You have nothing to be sorry about."

Sam's eyes lost their focus though and he seemed to sag a little. "'m tired," he murmured, his voice trailing off unintelligibly.

Dean put a hand on Sam's good arm, pressing lightly. "Sam? Come on, Sammy, stay awake."

But Sam's eyes drifted, his eyelids growing heavy. Then the tension in his body eased and he slipped into sleep again.

Dean called his brother's name one more time, and was about to try again when Bobby cut him off.

"The doc said this was likely," Bobby told him. "Kid's exhausted."

That was true. And it wasn't the quick nap that turned Dean's stomach. It was the apology.

Bobby grinned a little. "Did you see that?"

"Yeah," Dean said.

"He's okay," Bobby told him. "He's going to be okay."

It was true that Sam was alive and well. His eyes had been coherent and his speech had been clear. Dean didn't need a doctor to tell him that Sam was going to make a full physical recover, her dire warnings aside.

But physical healing wasn't the problem. Sam was strong--he was resilient. His body would rebound.

His soul was another question entirely--one that Dean was afraid to ask. A question Dean couldn't ignore any longer.

With a sigh, he settled back into his seat. Sam being awake was only half the battle. Recovering from significant brain damage and clinical death was hard, but doable. Recovering the balance between two estranged brothers was so much more difficult.

And that much more important.

Dean settled in, and waited.

-o-

Needless to say, the doctor was impressed with Sam's recovery. He passed his cognitive tests with flying colors. Within a day, Sam was alert and aware, and was already asking about physical therapy for his arm. The doctor called it nothing short of a miracle. Bobby was so relieved that he actually let himself be talked into going to the motel to sleep.

And yet, in all of the tests and friendly celebration, Dean could see the problem was still there. The distance between them--Sam's hesitation. His brother said as little as possible, offered few real insights. His answers were simple and to the point and Dean knew that there were parts of his brother that still needed to be fixed.

_Not fixed_, Dean reminded himself. _Just understood_. He'd tried to fix the Yellow-Eyed Sam and killed them all. It was a mistake Dean couldn't make in real life.

But fear of the mistake didn't mean that he could avoid it. If anything, Dean realized that would be the greatest mistake of all. He'd been trying hard to avoid dealing with Sam on every level--he'd taken a strict hand with regulating the hunts and had kept a wary eye on Sam's extracurriculars but that had been about it. They didn't talk about it, except to remind Sam how stupid it all was, and they certainly didn't get into how or why it all went down.

And he'd nearly lost his brother to it. Not just physically, though, yeah, they'd cut that one close, too. But mentally. Emotionally. Sam was still hanging by a thread, and Dean knew that waking up didn't change that.

It was all easier said than done, and after sitting making awkward small talk with Sam for about twenty minutes, Dean knew there was no time like the present. Hell, the present might be all they had left.

"So, uh," Dean said. He scratched his head, feeling uncomfortable. "What do you remember?"

Sam shook his head a little. "The demons," he said. "Throwing me around. I remember looking down over the landing but that's about it."

"So, nothing from when you were unconscious. Nothing weird or anything."

Sam thought for a moment and shook his head. He looked at his hands. "So I guess I screwed up," he said.

Dean's brow creased. "What?"

Sam looked at him from under his bangs. The bruise around his eye was still vivid, but faded to shades of red and pink. "The hunt," he said. "I left you to face them all alone."

Dean felt a little incredulous. "Dude, they were too well organized," he said. "You weren't going to be able to stop them with a little Latin."

"I should have researched it better," Sam said, shaking his head a little. "I just--I've been so sloppy--"

Dean forced himself to control his frustration. It wasn't Sam he was mad at, and he needed to be careful. "Sam--"

"I should--"

"Sam, seriously," Dean interjected forcefully. "Stop."

Sam obeyed, his lips drawing closed tightly.

Dean sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. "I don't want to talk about the hunt."

Sam's head dropped forward and he nodded.

"Not because I don't think we should but because that's not what matters."

Sam looked up at him, a little confused. "We have to stop Lucifer," he said. "I mean, you do. And I know I can't do much, but I need to help as much as I can."

"Sam, it's not that," he said.

Sam shifted on the bed, uncomfortable. "Then what is it?"

"It's--you. Me. Us."

Sam looked uncertain.

"I mean, you and I, we're hunting together, we're still doing all the same old things, but it's--different now, you know?"

By the guilty look on Sam's face, it seemed like his brother did know--probably better than Dean did.

"But, uh, I don't want it to be like that," Dean said. "Not that I want it to be like it was, because we were pretty screwed up last year. But, I don't know. I just think we can do better. Both of us."

Sam's eyes narrowed and he looked suspicious. His posture had stiffened and he was frowning tightly. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

Dean snorted a little. "Yeah, sure, whatever," he said.

"I was the one who screwed up," Sam persisted.

"Yeah, I remember that," Dean agreed. "But you weren't the only one."

Sam just shook his head, his face set. "What I did--"

"I don't really want to talk about it," Dean told him. "I mean, not what you did. We need to talk about why."

Sam laughed a little, rough and humorless. "Why? Because I was selfish and blind. I started the Apocalypse because of my own arrogance."

Dean couldn't help but wince. He'd thought as much a few times himself. But there was more to it than that. He'd ignored it once, and the results had been disastrous. This was his atonement--to help Sam find his. "Yeah, well," Dean said, shrugging. "Welcome to the human race."

Sam actually gaped. "You can't be serious."

"Of course I'm serious," Dean said. "Look, I was selfish and got myself dragged down to Hell. I got off that rack and started torturing people and set this whole damn thing in motion. Seems pretty bad, right? Well, for whatever reason, Cas dragged me out. Gave me a second chance. I'm not sure I deserved it, but I got it. What makes you any different?"

"You went to Hell for me."

"And gee, aren't you so grateful?" Dean quipped.

Sam refused to be distracted. "Dean, I get what you're trying to do. This is why you deserve a second chance, right here. But I--I _don't_. I never will. I will spend the rest of my life just trying to make up for a fraction of what I did to the world." He stopped, his eyes burning bright. "What I did to you."

There was a latent intensity in Sam's voice and an unbridled desperation in his eyes. It was all rooted in guilt, which seemed to hang heavily over everything his brother did.

It hurt to see. It had been hard to see in Sam's head, but to see it so plainly in the real world--was almost more than Dean could take. "Sam, you lied to me, and it pissed me off," he said. "And I lied to you, and it pissed you off. I think we're kind of even on that."

"It's more than that," Sam insisted.

Dean groaned a little. "You thought the blood was the only thing you could do. I should have figured it out sooner, man. I should have _asked _you about it."

"That wouldn't have made a difference."

"We don't know that."

"We know I'm a monster," Sam told him, and his voice was raw and harsh. "I know it, and you do, too."

"Maybe some of you," Dean conceded. "But I know who you really are."

Sam's head cocked, his eyes wet. "Who?"

He knew this answer--he knew it. And this time he only had one shot to get it right. "You're Sam. You're a guy who's lost everything," Dean told him. "You tried hard and you lost your hope anyway."

Sam's features flickered as he struggled for composure. "And what's that worth?"

Dean almost wanted to laugh as much as he wanted to cry. "It's worth fighting by your side," Dean said. "It can't make everything right, but it's enough to start again, Sam. It's enough."

For a moment, Dean thought Sam would deny it. He thought Sam would shut him off again, pull back in.

Instead, a single tear broke free from Sam's eyes. A sob caught in his throat. "Do you believe that?" he asked.

"No," Dean said. "I know it."

Sam laughed, hard, and sucked in a sob. But it was different--Sam was different. There was something open in his face, something vibrant in his eyes. Something Dean recognized from long ago, but hadn't seen in a very, very long time.

Hope.

More powerful than medicine, more important than a brotherly bond. Dean couldn't save his brother. Dean couldn't make it better. But hope could. Hope _would_.

Hope that they could come together. Hope that they could make the Apocalypse end. Hope that they could become better men than they were before. Hope that they could be better brothers to each other.

Sam needed it.

Dean did, too.

Sam breathed raggedly, wiping at his nose. "I just--I'm so sorry," he said. "For everything."

"Yeah, well," Dean said. "Me, too."

Sam's eyes were red and his body was still weak. There were still demons to contend with and angels to please. But, in it all, Dean felt better than he had in months. Years. Because for the first time in a long time, Sam wasn't his burden. He wasn't Dean's responsibility. Sam was just his brother. And there was strength in that--there was _hope_ in that--that mattered more than anything else.


End file.
